


Got a Latte on Your Mind

by demonsonthemoon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety, Arospec character, M/M, Past minor character death, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Trauma, also feel free to suggest tags if there are any you think I should warn for, but also! Coffee! Friendship! Pizza! It's not all doom and gloom I promise, gonna add more tags as I go on editing and posting, this fic has some darker themes considering how light-hearted the premise is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonsonthemoon/pseuds/demonsonthemoon
Summary: Sam's life was pretty decent, if he thought about it. He was on his way to getting his degree in psychology. He had a job as a coffeeshop barista that didn't totally suck, mostly because of his coworker, Clint Barton. He had friends. (?) He also had a handsome stranger hanging out with his favorite customer.Was he happy? Eh. He was getting there.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Sam Wilson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27
Collections: Aggressively Arospec Week '20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this VERY indulgent fic. The story behind it is ridiculous: My favorite OTPs are Winterhawk and Winterfalcon. One day, I realized that if I combined them, the ship name would be Winterbirds. My friend Robomori has a fic called Winterbird (it's Steve/Bucky and it's gorgeous, go check it out). So I turned towards him and said "hey, how funny would it be if I wrote a fanfic for this OT3 just as a way to make a pun on your fanfic title?" I don't remember if he said anything but I went ahead and wrote this fic anyway.
> 
> Also, this is gonna be an entry for this year's #AggressivelyArospecWeek, so updates will be once a week until June 21, and then I'll post all the remaining chapters throughout the week.

As far as student jobs went, Sam's wasn't too bad.

Sure, it involved getting up at fuck early in the morning to open the coffeeshop. (Called _Ground Zero_ , because what a hipster coffeeshop truly needed was a bad pun in its name.) But suffering from insomnia for the last three years had quickly gotten him used to functioning without enough sleep. Who would have thought _that_ particular skill would come in so handy?

There was the problem of needing to deal with rude customers and having been specifically instructed not to kick their ass, even if he could have taken out any of them _easy_ and all his coworkers knew it. But it wasn't _that_ bad.

The loud noises of portafilters being banged got on his nerves sometimes, sure, but the shop was surprisingly quiet, considering. A lot of people came there to work instead of talk, which meant a lot of silent concentration. Which was fine by Sam.

All things considered, his job really wasn't that bad.

Sure, he hadn't been supposed to need a student job to get him through school, not before he had spectacularly failed his second year at uni after losing his best friend and having a mental breakdown. But when did things ever go according to plan?

He was supposed to be looking on the bright side and all that. Let the negative thoughts flow through him, focus on the positive. Not the worst job he could have found.

Sam sighed. He took a few seconds to look down at his hands and get his thoughts back on track before pulling his customer-service smile back in place.

“Rough day?”

Sam's smile turned the slightest bit more genuine as Clint came back from the kitchen with a load of clean dishes and joined him behind the counter again. He wasn't surprised to see his coworker immediately retrieve the biggest mug from the tray and start making himself a drink.

Sam was pretty sure he'd seen Clint drink a quadruple espresso once. Hadn't even blinked.

Sam shrugged. “You know how it is. Not the best. Not the worst. I'll manage.”

Clint nodded. “I mean, sure, we could all be about to die. Compared to that, today's probably nothing to worry about.”

“It does put thing into perspective, doesn't it?”

The thing was, Sam didn't feel like he was being mocked. He felt like Clint understood. If not all of it, at least a big part.

Clint Barton, Sam had noticed over time, had issues. The man was a paradox, hanging out with him felt like facing both an open book and a closed door with no keyhole, all at the same time. He wore most of his emotions on his sleeve, but extracting any kind of tangible information out of him was like pulling teeth from a crocodile. You only did it if you _really_ had to.

The result of this was that Sam knew surprisingly little about Clint's life outside of work, but he did know his favorite color, everything there was to tell about archery, and that Clint sometimes had bad insomnia too and needed to call in sick for mental health reasons.

The thing was, Clint probably knew exactly what a rough day felt like. And that was a part of him that was easy to overlook. He had such a loud presence – and not _only_ in the accoustic sense - that his quiet moments tended to fade into the background of one's memories. Sam knew from experience that it was a difficult façade to maintain.

Sam liked Clint. It was easy enough to admit that he was probably the best part of Sam's job. Maybe not at first, because it had taken Sam a few days to adapt to Clint's brand of open friendliness and well-guarded privacy. But then there had been that one time at the beginning of his second week when Sam had accidentally spilled half a carton of milk on his shirt. He had gone into the kitchen to take it off and change into his hoodie, cursing himself all the while, and hadn't noticed Clint walking in while he was still shirtless. He _had_ however noticed the blond's excited “oh my god!” and had turned around to see Clint start to pull down his jeans.

Sam clearly remembered having just enough time to think _what the fuck_ and worry about one of the cooks reporting them to their boss for public indecency before noticing the hawk tattooed on Clint's right thigh. “We're bird bros! Bird siblings!” Clint had excitedly exclaimed, apparently unaware of Sam's total confusion.

It had taken a few more seconds for Sam to stop staring at Clint's bright purple boxers and actually focus on the ink, which he had to admit was gorgeous. It was an all-black piece, amazingly detailed, with thin lines that created a sketch-like look and immitated charcoal shading.

From there, Sam's train had backtracked a little, and he had finally realized that Clint's excitement had been caused by his spotting the stylized falcon spreading its red wings across Sams's right shoulderblade.

It had been a weird moment. Sam wasn't a prude by any means – which was why he'd had no qualms about taking off his shirt in the kitchen in the first place – but he also wasn't used to Clint's brazen lack of boundaries when it came to that sort of thing. Still, that particular encounter had bridged some sort of gap between them, and they had started chatting about their tattoos as they both got back to work with Sam in his hoodie. The falcon was Sam's only one, but Clint apparently had a small spider on his lower back and a sprig of lavender on his left ankle. Luckily for both their employment prospect, he hadn't offered to strip and show them to Sam.

It had taken that one unrestrained conversation for Sam to figure out that Clint's personality wasn't just an act he put on as part of the job. He was genuinely involved in any social interaction he had, even though there were some things he refused to talk about. That didn't mean he was being fake or pushing people away. Sam had smiled to himself on that day, thinking there were some things he could learn from his newfound friend.

There was only an hour left to his shift when Sam's favorite customer entered the coffeeshop. As soon as he spotted the mop of blond hair and the wide-rimmed glasses, Sam turned around, jostled Clint out of his place in front of the coffee machine, and prepared the large americano that Steve always ordered. Clint just laughed and rolled his eyes at him.

By the time Steve had dropped his bag at one of the tables and approached the counter, a steaming mug was waiting for him.

Sam quickly noticed a problem with the situation, though. Because Steve wasn't alone.

The guy behind him had shoulder-length dark hair that fell partially in front of his face. Combined with the way he was slightly hunched forward, it made Sam think of an animal curling in on itself in fear.

The look in his eyes wasn't that of a scared dog though. Instead, it was wary and vaguely distant. Unsettling. Somehow, that didn't stop Sam from noticing that his irises were a pale blue that stood out behind the stranger's dark hair.

“Hi Sam!” Steve greeted, shaking him out of his staring, which had worryingly started to shift into inappropriate territory. “How are you holding up?”

“By a thread, as always,” Sam replied, half-joking. “My shift is ending soon, so you're just in time. Guess it's your lucky day.”

“Not sure if I'd call it luck,” Clint quipped from beside him.

Sam ignored him and pushed the coffee in Steve's direction. “Your usual.”

Steve beamed at him, as if he was still surprised that Sam remembered his order, even if he'd been preparing it without being asked for weeks now. “Thanks so much. What do you want, Bucky? My treat.”

Steve's friend shrugged and stayed silent, looking neither Steve nor Sam in the eye.  
Steve didn't seem fazed, though, and started squinting at the menu on the chalkboard behind Sam. “Uuh... Could I get a hazelnut latte with whipped cream? Medium-sized?”

Sam forced himself not to raise en eyebrow. He waited a second for Bucky to protest, before getting to work on the drink. Clint easily moved beside him to ring in the orders, and Sam was handing Steve the second cup a minute after he'd put his wallet back in his pocket. Bucky was still hunched over, one hand hidden in his hoodie.

“Thanks,” Steve said with his usual bright smile. He had a tendency to say thank you a lot and left nice tips when he could, which explained why he was Sam's favorite customer. And probably that of every one of his coworkers too, but Sam had called dibs after the time Steve had started snarking at him after overhearing a conversation he'd been having with Clint.  
Steve's friend, however, wasn't ready to become anyone's favorite customer, and stayed silent even as he diligently accepted the latte Steve handed him and they moved to take a seat.

“Well, that guy was weird,” Clint stated behind Sam.

Sam shrugged. “I work with you, I've seen weirder.”

“Eh. Fair enough.”

The next time Sam saw Bucky, he was once again standing behind Steve. Clint wasn't working that day, and Sam instead had the privilege of sharing barista duty with Natasha. Shifts with Natasha weren't _bad_ , far from it, but Sam and her didn't share the easy intimacy that he had with Clint. They talked plenty, joked with each other, but if he was honest with himself, Sam still felt slightly terrified of the woman.

When Steve arrived, Sam immediately fixed him his usual. Natasha was used to it by now, and her only reaction to this routine was an accentuation to her ever-present smirk. Sam handed Steve his cup over the register, then pointedly turned towards Bucky. “What can I get you?”

It was perhaps a more aggressive style of communication than what he was usually known for, and there was a fraction of a second where the other man seemed frozen in place. Sam wouldn't be offended if Bucky didn't say anything, but he wanted to give him the opportunity to speak for himself.

“I...” Bucky started, then stopped. He turned towards Steve. The blond looked... embarrassed, maybe? A little sad? Some kind of complicated expression, in any case.

But, hey. Bucky had said something. Or tried to. A word was a word, right? And Steve didn't look like he was about to burn the coffeeshop to the ground because of Sam's asshole move. The world probably wasn't going to end. What a nice change.

Bucky's eyes drifted towards the board behind Sam, which gave him one last hope that his plan was going to work out, but he immediately gazed away. He looked overwhelmed. Maybe like he was about to be sick. Sam sure hoped not, because there was no way Natasha would be the one to clean things up if he was.

Sam should probably try to salvage this situation before he has to clean puke off the floor while Natasha watched. She would probably send a picture to Clint just to share her relish at Sam's pain.

“You like milk-based drinks? Do you want something bitter, or something sweet?

That... actually seemed to help, a little. Bucky's gaze focused wholly on Sam, somehow clearer. _God_ were those eyes blue.

“Sweet,” Bucky said, hesitantly. “Sweet is... I like sweet.”

“Okay. I can work with that.”

Sam turned around and started preparing a drink. Natasha took his place at the register and rung up another customer's muffin in the meantime. That didn't mean that Sam got to escape her amused smirk and accompanying raised eyebrow.  
He ignored her and made Bucky a white chocolate moccha, with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles on top, because he might as well go all in while he was at it.

He put the drink down in front of Bucky, whose look of relief made Sam think he was expecting to be served a ticking bomb. “White moccha. Let me know next time whether you liked it.”

It was cocky, maybe, to assume there would be a next time. That wasn't really what Sam had been aiming for, but it was too late to rephrase things.

Bucky didn't reply, but there was something curious in his expression that had replaced the fear, and Sam counted that as a major win. Steve didn't say anything as he paid for their drinks, but he did offer Sam a poor attempt at a smile as they walked away. That didn't mean that Sam had completely fucked up, did it?  
He hoped he hadn't fucked up.

He had no idea why that seemed so important to him right then. Just that it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanons for Sam and Clint’s tattoos is that Clint’s hawk is in the style of [this artist](https://www.instagram.com/justice.tattooist/) (if you live in Belgium: she’s really nice, and I had a great experience with her) and Sam’s falcon is in [this guy’](https://www.instagram.com/monsieurcharles_tatoueur/)s style (caveat: I’m white living in a majority-white country and I don’t personally know any artists who work on black skin which is totally my bad).
> 
> Hope you liked this first chapter! Let me know your thoughts and I will love you forever.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

“Steve incoming,” Clint said, interrupting what _might_ have been a bout of wallowing on Sam's part. He hadn't slept well. He couldn't be sure whether he'd had nightmares, couldn't remember anything (which was a blessing, if he were honest). But he didn't feel rested. That had turned the drudgery of the coffeeshop, the loud noises and constant pressure to be cheerful, into its very own kind of hell.

But at least he had access to a nearly unlimited supply of coffee, as Clint liked to remind him. There had to be a positive about everything, right?

Even though coffee only worsened his anxiety issues.

The bell on the doorjamb still hadn't rung, but Sam busied himself preparing the usual large americano.

When he finally entered into _Ground Zero_ , Steve accepted the cup that was handed to him like he wasn't fully aware of what was happening.

“Sorry about the other day,” Sam said before he could react. It wasn't that he felt like he'd really done anything wrong _per se_ , but the way the exchange between him and Bucky had gone down still bothered him. He just wanted to make sure there wouldn't be any shadow hanging over him and Steve because of it.

Maybe it was weird to be so invested in a relationship that consisted of being paid to make coffee and exchanging a few sentences as he did so. Then again, Sam didn't have a lot of _relationships_ of any kind, so he might as well invest in them all.

“The other day?” Steve asked in a confused tone. Looking at him more carefully, he figured that Steve hadn't slept well either. He was clutching his coffee cup like a lifeline, despite not having paid for it yet, and was a lot slower on the uptake than usual.

“Two days ago. When you came here. I don't know whether I crossed a line with your friend or something, but I just... If I did, it wasn't on purpose.”

Understanding seemed to finally dawn on the other man. “Oh! That. No. No, that's fine. Bucky's just...” Steve trailed off. “He's not the best at... social interactions. Right now. But he wasn't... hurt or anything. It was fine.” He paused again. “It was probably good for him, actually. I think.”

Steve seemed to finally remember he was supposed to pay for the coffee, and that put a natural end to the conversation. Sam couldn't help but follow him with his eyes as he sat down in a corner of the shop.

“Something was off with him, right?” Sam asked Clint.

“Looks like he has some stuff on his mind,” Clint agreed.

Sam nodded. He got back to work.

When Sam had first started working at the coffeeshop, Clint and Natasha had been the ones to handle his training. Sam had felt like a third wheel for the whole day, and at the same time he'd been completely fascinated. The two of them worked together like they'd been born for it, like they were two parts of the same machine. They had finished each other's sentences and touched each other with ease, and Sam's chest had ached with what he couldn't help but call the _beauty_ of it.

So, as they were taking a break, he'd asked how long the both of them had been together, and Clint had spit out a mouthful of coffee and promptly started to choke. Natasha had just said that Clint didn't deserve her, gesturing at his coughing form as if to say it proved her point.

Then Natasha had ran a hand through Clint's hair with a soft smile, and Sam had been confused _as fuck_.

It didn't help that Natasha didn't touch _anybody_ except Clint. Sometimes it felt like she made an effort to always be detached from other people and the situation, but mostly it was just physical contact she avoided. And it's not that she would jump if you brushed past her or anything. She just _never_ initiated. _Ever_. Except with Clint.

At the time, Sam hadn't had the framework to recognize that as anything other than romantic love.

Then Clint had arrived at work one day in a shirt that read “Straight as an Aro,” with a logo of an arrow decorated in what was obviously a pride flag. So Sam had done a google search, because the internet was a thing. A very helpful thing when it came to avoiding potentially awkward and personal questions.

And then he felt like an idiot for not trusting someone's word when they told you their relationship wasn't romantic. The fact that he'd needed a good reason to start believing anything else left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Steve's hot friend was here yesterday,” Clint said in lieu of greeting when Sam came in for work one Saturday.

“Uh. Okay?”

“He told me to tell you that he liked the white moccha.”

Sam felt... something. He felt some kind of way about the fact that Bucky had apparently remembered that Sam had asked for his opinion. He wasn't sure he wanted to really look into what that feeling was.

“Oh. That's... nice.”

“Yeah. Looks like that guy needs more nice things in his life.”

Sam had to agree with Clint. The man hadn't looked especially comfortable the two times Sam had seen him. Also, most people deserved more nice things. The world wasn't exactly a kind place, if you asked Sam.

The next time Sam saw Bucky was a week later. Steve had come back once since then, and he had seemed normal enough, though a bit stressed. Sam could work with stressed. He was pretty sure that Steve was still in college, same as him, so stress was pretty much par for the course.

Sam was about to ask what Bucky wanted to order when Clint interrupted him.

“No coffee,” he said, tone categorically refusing argument.

Sam was surprised, and turned towards him in protest. They had always been informal with their customers, but exchanging a few jokes wasn't the same as forbidding them something outright. That had to be some kind of violation of their employee code. Or something.

But Clint only raised an eyebrow. And Bucky didn't say anything.

“I'll make you a chai latte,” Clint stated, before leaving Sam, dumbfounded, to deal with the register.

Bucky, on his part, didn't seem too bothered by the whole affair. His face stayed uncomfortably neutral as he pulled out his wallet. And then Sam noticed what Clint had probably spotted right away.

He was shaking.

Just the slightest tremor, only really visible on his hands. But Sam didn't need the help of any of his psychiatry modules to recognise that. The guy looked like he was in the middle of an anxiety attack.

Which explained Clint's strict orders of no caffeine. He had always been better at taking care of other people than himself, considering his blood was at least 20 percent coffee at all time.

“You can tell Clint off if you want to,” Sam told Bucky, hesitating before he put his order in. “Though he means well.”

Bucky shrugged, still silent.

There was a question on the tip of Sam's tongue.

_What happened to you?_

But you couldn't ask that. Definitely not to someone who didn't even know your name.

“This one's on the house,” Clint said, sliding the chai latte towards Bucky. Sam rolled his eyes, because now he had to cancel the order on the register, which was always a pain. “There's a school group working in the back,” Clint continued. “So you might want to go upstairs if you need some quiet. Or there's the courtyard.”

“Thanks,” Bucky replied, awkwardly and a bit too late. He set off towards the tiny courtyard, despite that fact it was far from warm outside.

Another customer came in just then, so it was a few minutes before Sam found the opportunity to comment.

“So... you handled that pretty well”, he said, gesturing towards the door that led outside.

Clint shrugged. “Been there, done that. Sometimes you just need someone to tell you that it's okay to take a break. Sometimes what you really want is for someone to notice it's hard.”

Sam didn't know what to say. He extended a hand and squeezed Clint's shoulder for a moment. It didn't feel like enough, and at the same time like too much. He was more than aware then, that their friendship still resembled a fragile equilibrium. That he couldn't take that kind of openness for granted.  
Sam let go.

“Do you think he's okay?”

Clint shrugged again. “Hard to tell. You can have highs and lows. He seems pretty low right now, but who knows.”

It was an hour later when Bucky finally left, huddled deep inside his leather jacket and the scarf around his neck. He nodded in the two baristas' direction as he left, but didn't say anything.

Sam was glad to note that his eyes weren't the only ones that lingered on the man's retreating form. Clint was staring as much as him. Hopefully, if he wasn't the only one concerned about this client they barely knew, it made it less weird.

One could always hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was kind of short and kind of slow, but the rhythm is gonna start to pick up a little in the next chapter! Hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning that there's a lot of alcohol being consumed in this chapter and there's some intimacy between people who are no longer sober. Nothing much, but I still wanted to give you all a heads up.  
> Also there's Natasha Romanoff/Jessica Drew happening in the background. Not enough that I feel like tagging the fic with the pairing though.

Sam didn't go out a lot. He had work to worry about on top of his studies, and crowds and loud noises had lost a lot of their appeal in the recent years.

But he couldn't exactly say no when Clint invited him to celebrate his birthday. You didn't say no to one of your only friends just because you weren't sure you remembered what going to a bar for a birthday actually entailed.

Apparently, it meant Sam getting a lot drunker than he had thought he would, because his tolerance for alcohol had been shot to shit. It could easily have been overwhelming, but somehow wasn't. Natasha didn't drink, and had gamely accepted to make sure all the others didn't accidentally kill themselves.

He hadn't known what kind of group to expect either, but their party was actually quite small, consisting of Clint, Natasha, Sam and three other people. One was probably as old as Clint, a guy called Scott Lang who told the most unbelievable stories, and one must be around Sam's age, a women named Jessica who was a weirdly attentive conversationalist. The last person in the group was Kate Bishop, whose relationship with Clint seemed to mostly revolve around arguing with him. She was younger than everyone else, but managed to drink them all under the table. She explained that it had something to do with the champagne at her dad's parties, but at that point Sam was already too far gone to remember much about the specifics.

The thing was, Sam was having fun.

Maybe it shouldn't have felt as surprising as it did.

Two and a half drinks in, and he had already managed to let go, not thinking about his classes or anything that wasn't tipsily dancing with Clint and laughing when he threw his arms around Sam's neck and demanded birthday cuddles.

Sam melted into Clint's arms and held on tight. For once, he didn't second-guess himself. He let himself enjoy something he hadn't realised he missed.

“You know you're a great friend, right?” Clint asked, softly and in a much more serious tone than his inebriated state should have allowed.

Sam didn't know how to reply to that, but Clint didn't seem too bothered. “You are,” he confidently stated. And then he gave Sam a gentle peck on the lips and pulled away from their tangle of arms to make a sarcastic comment about a story Scott was telling.

Sam stood still for a few seconds. When Natasha clapped him on the shoulder, he almost collapsed to the floor. (She was a lot stronger than she looked. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that Sam felt a little nauseous and a lot confused.)

“He's an affectionate drunk,” she said, pointing towards where Clint was running his hand through Jessica's hair. “Don't read too much into it.”

“I won't. I know he's not-” Sam stopped himself. What did he actually know? He had guessed from a t-shirt that Clint was probably aromantic, but they'd never actually talked about it. He had no way to know what the word actually meant for Clint.

Natasha smiled. “He means it, though. Whatever he said to you, he meant it. He loves people a lot, even if he has his own particular way of showing it.”

“Okay.” Sam felt like signals were getting mixed, there.

Natasha grinned again. Sam had to stop himself from shivering. He wasn't sure what her goal was in this interaction. He wasn't sure how much that should worry him.

“Naaaaaaat~” Clint called, making them both turn towards the rest of the group. “Your girlfriend is being mean to me on my birthday!”

Jess rolled her eyes. “Telling you I'm not gonna do shots with you isn't being mean, Clint, it's taking care of your health.”

“See?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You must be a lot drunker than I accounted for if you think I'm gonna side with you against my girlfriend. I know whose bed I'm sharing tonight.”

Clint groaned dramatically.

Natasha walked over to them and kissed Jessica on the cheek. “Thanks for being responsible despite his puppy eyes.”

 _Oh_. Sam had never heard that soft tone in Natasha's voice. He hadn't even known she was dating anyone. There were too many things going on for his intoxicated brain to follow.

A group of people walked into the bar, letting in a gust of fresh air as they did. Sam appreciated the breeze for a second, though it didn't do much to clear his head.

Then Clint excitedly pointed at one of the newcomers. “Is that _Steve?_ ”

Sam turned around, so fast that the movement made his stomach lurch. Sure enough, Steve was there, taking a jacket off someone else's shoulders. There were more people behind him, a man with brown hair and a goatee, and a woman with light red hair. And then, trailing at the back, was Bucky, looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“Steve!” Clint called across the bar at a frankly uncomfortable volume. “Come join us! It's my birthday!”

Sam winced. They didn't actually _know_ Steve. They only saw him at work, and Sam was pretty sure the guy had no idea he was everyone's favorite customer. He had that look about him, the kind found on people who didn't know their worth. Why would he have any desire to hang out with a couple of drunk baristas when he was obviously on a night out with his friends?

Except that Steve spotted them and _smiled_. Not a small, embarrassed sort of smile. He full-on beamed in a way that was almost enough to give Sam a headache.

And then he came over to them, his friends trailing behind him. “Hi! Happy birthday!”

“Thank you,” Clint replied, solemn and looking very proud of himself. “Let me introduce you to my friends.” Everyone gamely went along as he said each of their name in turn. “And you know Sam, of course.”

“Hey.”

Steve smiled again. “Hey man. It's good to see you. You look better without the apron on.”

“I don't know if I should take this as a compliment or an insult, but I'm just gonna assume that what you meant is that I always look stunning, and tonight more than usual.”

The banter came easily to his lips, and made Steve laugh. Apparently, everyone was happy to start mingling with new people. Even if _Sam_ wasn't so sure about it.

Actually, he might not be the only one with reservations, since Bucky was still standing one step behind the other members of his group of friends.

“This is Peggy,” Steve started, introducing said friends. “And this is Tony and Pepper. Sam and Clint already know Bucky, we've been at _Ground Zero_ together a few times.”

“What brings you all here tonight?” Natasha asked.

“Just hanging out. Tony said he was tired of us always staying in.”

“We had movie nights the last three times we hung out. All of those movie nights have been in _my_ appartment, because it's the only place big enough. Excuse me for wanting, _for once_ , not to have to clean up after all of you.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I offered to clean up literally every single time. Stop pretending to be some kind of martyr.

“Excuse me for trying to be a good host!”

“It sure looks like your movie nights beat going over to Clint's and having to clean his flat for half an hour before there's anywhere acceptable to sit,” Scott said.

“Hey! Stop being mean to me on my birthday!”

“Telling the truth isn't being mean,” Jess pointed out.

“Scott only cleans his flat when his daughter's coming over!”

“Yeah, but at least I don't _ask my daughter to clean it for me._ ”

The exchange started a whole conversation, and it looked like Steve's friends were indeed going to be joining the birthday celebrations without any more questions.

Bucky still hadn't said a word.

Sam went to him. “Hey. You doing okay? Want something to drink?

“Can't have alcohol,” Bucky answered, without more explanation.

Apparently, expecting him to be a helpful conversationalist was dreaming a bit too big. “I mean... They also have sodas and stuff. Probably some kind of juice.”

“I'm fine.”

“Sure.” There was more that Sam wanted to say, but what little sense he had left told him he would probably be better off minding his own business. “So how do you guys all know each other?”

At least Bucky didn't seem to actively want him gone. Maybe talking would help him unwind. Worst-case scenario, he would use Sam being annoying as an excuse to leave the party early. Talking couldn't hurt anyone. Well, maybe Sam's feelings, but that was another story.

“I know them through Steve. He met Peggy and Pepper at school, and Tony comes with Pepper.”

That was two whole sentences strung together. It should not have felt like a victory.

“And what about Steve? How did you meet him?”

“Childhood friend. Best friend. He's... he's pretty much family, by now.

“He's a cool guy.”

“Yeah.”

Bucky didn't add anything. Sam gritted his teeth until he felt the urge to facepalm recede.

“I'm gonna get another drink.”

On his way back from the bar, he was dragged into a conversation with Steve and Natasha, about _data tracking_ , of all things. It somehow led to Steve and Tony loudly arguing while Peggy rolled her eyes next to Sam.

And the thing was... it wasn't bad. It was nice, even. Sam knew he would wake up with a _killer_ headache the next day, but for now it all seemed worth it.

By 3AM, though, he was more than ready to go home. He had started saying goodbye to everyone when he realised that Clint wasn't inside anymore. Now that he thought about it, neither was Bucky.

Steve was sitting at a table next to him, so Sam asked him if he'd seen the other two. Steve's eyes went wide. He checked his phone, then apologized to Peggy and told her was gonna go look for them with Sam.

“They probably just stepped outside, you know,” Sam said, wincing at the way his words were slurring together.

“I know. It's just...” Steve paused, struggling to get his jacket on. “Bucky's not a big fan of crowds and noise. He said he was fine but... I should have kept an eye on him.”

Sam didn't speak what he thought aloud, which was quite an exceptional show of self-control considering his inebriated state. Bucky was a grown man. It wasn't Steve's responsibility to keep an eye on him at all time.

Sam and Steve stepped out of the bar, wincing at the cold. There was no one loitering in front of the entrance, which was a surprise, but they could hear voices coming from further down the street.

They took a turn onto a smaller side street, and there were their friends. Bucky was sitting on a low wall that marked the entrance to someone's courtyard, and Clint was lying on his back next to him. They seemed entirely unaware of the panic they'd caused.

“And then she'd throw the apple and I would shoot it in the air,” Sam heard Clint say, waving his hands around as he told the story. “I could totally still do it! I mean, probably not right now, because I'm pretty sure I would start to puke if you asked me to hang from a trapeze.” He paused. “Yeah, definitely not right now. But like, in theory, I could still totally do it.”

Bucky let out a short, low laugh. He looked relaxed. At least, more so than inside the bar. Looking at them, Sam felt a surge of guilt coming up. It felt like his concern was ruining their moment. He took a deep breath.

“Please, don't let Clint do any drunk circus tricks,” he said, approaching them. “He's a menace to himself even when sober.”

“Hey!” Clint protested, propping himself up. “Stop being mean to me on my birthday!”

“It's 3AM, so technically no longer your birthday. Bullying is allowed now.”

Clint groaned. “Already? I should probably move.”

“I mean, it's your party,” Sam shrugged. He wasn't feeling quite as casual as what he was acting like, but no one had to know that. “Do what you want. But I'm gonna head home. Thought I'd at least say goodbye before leaving.

“You're a nice man, Sam Wilson,” Clint solemnly stated.

“Yeah, sure. I'm still not gonna take the opening shift on Monday.”

Clint groaned dramatically. “See Bucky? And people ask me why I thought it'd be a good idea to join the circus.”

“From what you just told me,” Bucky replied. “It doesn't seem like people were going any easier on you over there.”

Clint made a wounded noise at that, clapping his hands over his heart. “ _Et tu, Brute?_ Here I thought I had finally found an ally among my persecutors.”

“Sure.” Bucky patted one of Clint's shoulders. “Hey, Steve. You leaving as well?”

Sam turned towards the other man, who gave a hesitant shrugged. “If you want to. I don't mind either way.”

“I think I'm pretty much beat,” Bucky replied easily. “My old man's bones aren't meant for this shit anymore.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Sure. I'll let Peggy know we're leaving, then. See if she wants to come over or not. Wait for me here?”

“Sure thing.”

Steve left, leaving the three others to stand there somewhat awkwardly.

“So. You talk, uh?”

Sam spoke, and then immediately cursed himself. While he was at it, he promised himself not to touch alcohol ever again in his life. What the hell had he been _thinking_? You didn't _say_ things like that. That was fucked up.

Except... Bucky just laughed. It was a soft and rumbly sound, and Sam was completely taken aback by it.

“Yeah. I talk. Sometimes. Sorry about... being weird and stuff. At the shop. I've been tense, lately.”

Sam couldn't stop himself from raising an eyebrow, because _tense_ felt like an understatement. Still, he didn't mean to be completely disrespectful. “I get it man, you don't have to apologize. Things get hard sometimes. It's good to see you more comfortable, though.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed. “It's nice.”

Sam nodded. “Just let me know if you get tired of being surprised by a new flavored latte every time you come by?”

“Why would I complain about the best part of the experience?” There was something roguish about his grin just then, an expression totally different to anything Sam had seen on his face until now. It was smooth and – Sam could admit it – dangerously charming.

“Aw, man,” Clint cut in. “You shouldn't have said that. Sam's gonna take it as a challenge, now.”

“Don't we have passionfruit syrup left from the iced summer specials?” Sam asked, happy to distract himself from what could have been some dangerous thoughts.

Clint pulled a face. “I sure hope not. That thing was _nasty_. Please don't do this to an innocent man.”

Sam let out a short laugh, but stopped when he realised that Bucky's face had turned somber once more. He didn't have time to ask about it, though, because Steve chose that instant to come back.

“Peggy said she's gonna take a cab home, so we're good to go if you want.”

Bucky nodded silently, standing up and walking over to Steve. The latter raised his hand in a cheerful wave. “Bye guys. It was really nice to hang out. Happy birthday again, Clint.”

“Thanks,” Clint replied, making a hand gesture that was a hybrid between a wave and a sloppy salute. “Get home safe. See you at the shop!”

“You can count on it!”

Sam and Clint watched the other two walk away.

“So, that was an interesting night.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I had fun!”

“You do realize that you walked out on your own birthday party and that you're going to have some explaining to do?”

Clint shrugged. “I'll just tell them I got lost on my way to the bathroom. Works every time.”

“Sure. I'm gonna head out. Got work to do tomorrow.”

Before he could convince himself that it was a bad idea, Sam opened his arms.

Clint didn't even hesitate before moving into the hug.

 _Fuck_.

It felt nice.

It felt _safe._


	4. Chapter 4

On the Monday after his birthday party, Clint handled the opening shift. Sam, on the other hand, joined him just in time for the morning rush hour. It was a two hour difference in schedule, but felt like a luxury. And Clint was clearly resentful of that fact as he tried to find the time to pour himself a third shot of espresso in-between two bleary morning customers.

Sam, of course, put on a beaming smile and his cheery customer service voice, speaking just a tiny bit too loud to really drive the point home. By the end of the morning rush, Clint's glare contained as much concentrated bitterness as the drinks he was pouring, and Sam was cackling with laughter on the inside.

“I hate you,” Clint said from behind the counter as Sam brought back a tray of dirty cups. “I hate you so much right now.”

“Whatever for? I clearly have a gem of a personality.”

“You also have no respect for post-birthday-weekend hangovers, and that makes you the worst friend ever.”

“I could have not come to your birthday at all,” Sam pointed out. “I could have changed the playlist in here so that it blasted Happy Birthday at full volume every hour. I could have thrown rocks at your window on Sunday morning until you woke up.”

Clint was staring at him, fully horrified. “Please don't ever turn evil. I'm gonna have nightmares about this as it is. I can't handle anything more than that.”

“Didn't figure you for such a weakling, Barton.”

“No. I am putting a stop to this conversation right here. For the sake of our position as co-workers. I don't think the shop could handle it if we had to schedule our shifts so that we never meet again.”

“That's fine.” Sam shrugged. “I know where you live anyway.”

“What were you talking about, at the party, with Bucky?” Sam asked a propos of nothing while they were changing clothes after their shift. “I'd never seen him that relaxed.”

Clint scratched an itch on his upper thigh, belt hanging open around his jeans. “Yeah... I think he just gets overwhelmed really easily. Which... fair enough, you know?”

Sam nodded. He _did_ know, although he still often found it hard to admit that in front of others.

“I think he just does better in one-on-one settings. When there are no expectations.”

“That makes sense,” Sam agreed. “You're good at lowering people's expectations.”

Clint flipped him off, and Sam retaliated by sticking his tongue out.

“Seriously though. You did good. The guy looked like he needed a chance to unwind.”

“I mean,” Clint started, finally closing his belt. “I just talked to him. It was nice. It's not like I was doing it _for_ him or anything. I needed some air, he was there, we talked. Turns out he's big on sarcasm, once you get him going. You'd probably get along.”

Sam frowned a little, thinking back on his strained attempt at a conversation with Bucky inside the bar.

 _No expectations_ , Clint had said.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“I know you're the artist and I'm just one of the plebs, but I'm pretty sure charcoal isn't supposed to be used as make-up.”

“Uh?” Steve asked, fishing out his wallet from his backpack.

“Your face.” Sam pointed at his own. “You've got charcoal all over your left cheek.

Steve tried to rub his sleeves against it. His efforts were mostly ineffective, considering he'd aimed an inch too low.

“I mean, if anybody asks, you could always say that it's a bruise you got fighting a bunch of neo-nazis,” Clint said.

“Don't give him ideas,” Sam tutted. “He's going to break three bones and then we'll lose a tipping customer.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “It's nice to see how much you care both about me and current politics.”

“A man's gotta eat, you know?” Sam shrugged with a grin.

“Right.” Steve pointedly slipped his change into the tip jar. “By the way, thanks again for Saturday. I know we kind of crashed your party, but I had a really nice time-”

“Shush,” Clint interrupted. “I'm the one who invited you to join. Nothing to apologize for.”

“We could do it again some time?” Steve asked. “If you're not too scared that Peggy, Pepper and Natasha are gonna form a girls' gang.”

Clint shuddered. “Terrifying thought.”

“It's probably too late,” Sam interjected. “Might be smarter to just swear our fealty to them right away.”

The coffeeshop's bell rang, announcing a new customer.

“Well. I know where to find you guys if we ever plan something else.” Steve raised his cup of coffee. “Thanks.”

Steve and Bucky were sitting in a far corner of the coffeeshop while Sam was on shift with Natasha when Bucky suddenly started laughing. It wasn't the same low laugh that Sam had heard after Clint's birthday party. Instead it was loud, free and unselfconscious. Sam froze in the middle of emptying a portafilter, just to listen. Bucky had thrown his head back, and his long hair was falling down his shoulders, rays of light seemingly trapped within it. He snorted as he finally stopped laughing, looking back at Steve. Sam could only imagine the way his eyes must be glimmering with mirth.

He felt like something had lodged in his throat.  
And then Sam felt something hit his head. “No crushes allowed during worktime,” Natasha said. “And no, Jessica coming by doesn't count.”

It was an entirely unfair rule if you asked Sam, but as usual he was too scared of Natasha to protest. Maybe he should have. At least for the crush part. That... felt like something he should have protested against.

The two groups of friends did end up planning another outing together. Sam hadn't actually expected that. Sure, everybody had seemed to have fun the last time, but it was just... _a lot_ of people together. Which was a point that _had_ actually come up after Tony had added everybody to a group chat and told them they were now contractually obligated to see each other. Turned out it was kind of complicated to plan something for a group of eleven people.

In the end, they had settled on laser tag.

Tony brought along one of his friends, Rhodey, so that they were an even number. It was unanimously decided that things would be more fun if they mixed the two groups of friends when they formed the team. Sam ended up playing with Kate, Jessica, Rhodey, Steve and Pepper. The game began and Sam tried to team up with Steve for a while as they made their way through the maze, but quickly realized that the other man's idea of strategy was just to run at any member of the opposite team and hope for the best. So Sam left him to it after taking one too many hits himself while trying to protect the blond. Rhodey was closer to his own style of fighting, and by the end of the game they had a pretty good technique worked out.

It turned out that _pretty good_ wasn't enough. Not when Clint and Bucky had been put on the same team. The two of them had stupidly perfect aim, despite the fact that this was _laser tag,_ where the guns were known to be idiosyncratic at best. They also both managed to stretch the limit of the laser's reach, taking shots from afar before they'd even been spotted by their opponents. When in the same area of the maze, they were ruthlessly efficient, always covering both sides of whatever hallway they'd picked. The only one able to give them a run for their money in terms of shooting was Kate, but she had a tendency not to protect herself enough. That meant she often ended up getting shot right after taking someone else out.

Despite the unequal game, they all had fun. Bucky was smiling again. He wasn't carrying himself like his body was something to hide. Not that he was being loud. It was hard to qualify him as anything like that when faced with Tony's charismatic presence or the excitement that always radiated from Scott. But at least he was _there_.

“Well done in there,” Sam said, taking a chance. “I knew Clint had crazy aim with all the archery he does, but I hadn't expected it from you.”

Bucky shrugged. “Military training. I dropped out, but for a while they thought they'd make a sniper out of me.”

“Yeah, I can see why.” Sam suddenly had a thousand questions on his lips. There was no way he was going to let them out, but they burned his throat anyway. “I wanted to ask, are you studying or something?” Sam didn't feel proud, but it was a quick way to change the subject. “Steve always brings work to the coffeeshop, but you don't usually have a laptop.”

Bucky's smile faded a little, and Sam felt even _less_ proud.

“Shit. You don't have to answer if it's a sore topic.” Steve was looking at them out of the corner of his eyes. _Fuck_. Great job, Wilson. Avoid a hole and step on a landline. Just what he'd needed. “Seriously. I was just curious.”

“It's... okay. I'm kind of... in-between things for the moment. I'm... taking some time to myself. To figure some things out.”

“Good. That's good.” He felt like an idiot, floundering for something, _anything,_ that would save this conversation _._ “You read a lot, right?” That transition was even more obvious that the previous one, but Sam was feeling pretty desperate by that point. _Screw conversational finesse_. At least books were a safe topic, weren't they?

Usually. For most people. It probably depended on what kind of books. General questions should be fine though.

Sam felt the relaxation that physical exercise had brought him quickly start to fade.

“If he starts talking about Discworld, run away,” Steve said, interrputing Sam's panicked inner monologue. If a choir of angel had suddenly appeared around Steve to praise the saviour, Sam would barely have been surprised. He could have kissed him right then.

“Hey, jerk, forgive me for having taste,” Bucky replied, easy as breathing. This was probably a discussion they'd had many times.

“Yeah, the tastes of a fifteen year old.”

“Only idiots keep insisting that fantasy is just a kids' genre. But I don't care. I'm not talking to you, I'm talking to Sam.

“Are you now?” Sam said with a raised eyebrow. Internally, he was much less composed than that.

“Yeah. I don't see how you could be worse than him.”

“I'll pretend to take that as a compliment.”

Bucky shrugged. “Ever read any Pratchett?”

Steve dramatically mouthed _run away_ before leaving them to go talk to Peggy and Natasha. He had apparently decided that Sam didn't need saving anymore.

“Not really. Been meaning to try it, but I think the only one I ever finished was Good Omens.”

Bucky grinned like a kid on Christmas. Sam felt like he'd been hit in the chest. He would probably have worried about Bucky a lot less if he'd known that talking nerdy was enough to make him smile like that.

Well. It probably wouldn't _actually_ have stopped him from worrying, but one could always hope.

Sam now understood why Clint had thought they would get along. When he got going, Bucky could be really charming. He was sarcastic, with a sense of humour that could get dark at times, but he also got endearingly excited about silly stuff. It was cute.

He and Sam started talking a little more whenever Bucky came to the coffee shop. At least on the good days. There were still times when Bucky came in with a distant look on his face, though lately he tried to disguise it under a smile.

That was okay. Everyone had their own way of dealing with stuff. If Bucky needed a moment to brood in silence, Sam would make him a chai latte and mind his own business. It was fine. It was _good_ , even. _Sam_ was good. He felt like he was starting to get his shit together, like the connections he had made here were finally something resembling permanent. He felt like he was starting to take root.

His siter agreed, and told him so several times over the course of an emotional brunch when she came to visit. Sam acted like he was profoundly embarrassed by her behaviour, and secretly loved her for it. They took selfies to send to their parents, as well as pictures of the food captioned with _Look at all the veggies!!!_ (despite the fact that Amanda had been a vegetarian for two years by then.)

University was far from a walk in the park, but he was managing. More importantly, he was _learning_. He wasn't feeling like life just happened around him anymore.

He started jogging regularly, and then even more so when he mentioned it to Steve and the other man decided to join him. It turned out that the blond had incredible stamina and speed, considering he was nearly a head shorter than Sam. It was a little infuriating, actually, especially with the way that Steve _gloated_ whenever he outrun him.

Things were good.

Until they weren't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't kill me I have plant to water, they're innocent and don't deserve to die for my sins.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers! I hope you're enjoying this fic! Just wanted to stop by as I update to let you know that this Sunday (21/06) is the beginning of #AggressivelyArospecWeek on tumblr. Check out the blog http://aggressivelyarospec.tumblr.com for more info! The fic will be updated again on Sunday and throughout the week until it's all up!
> 
> Content warning for a panic attack going on at the beginning of this chapter.

Clint bruised his ribs by rescuing a dog that had almost run into traffic. He tried to make light of it, but his haunted eyes had a story to tell that Sam wasn't sure he really wanted to know. He hadn't asked why the dog wasn't with his proper owner. He hadn't asked why it had been about to run onto the road in the first place.

There were a lot of thing that Sam had learned not to ask about. Clint's family, for example. He had quickly gathered that any story about them would probably not be a happy one. He could guess from the way Clint stared at parents who started shouting at their kids in the shop that there might have been some form of abuse involved. In one way or another.

But Clint wasn't Sam's patient, and Sam wasn't actually a therapist. This wasn't something that was his responsibility to fix.

That's what Sam kept telling himself.

The truth was that Sam had never asked more because he wasn't sure he could bear the knowledge. It had felt like he barely had any control over his own life and feelings, and he'd been too scared that caring for another person would just drag him down.

Fuck that.

“I swear to god, Barton, if you come into work I will land you back in the hospital and ask them to cuff you to the bed. Better yet, I'll get Natasha to do it for me.” The woman in question gave him a thumbs up from where she was busy foaming milk. “She approves. … Yes, I know it sounds bad. That's why I'm telling you. Get some freaking rest. I'll drop by with pizza after closing. … I know I'm the best, so I'll pretend not to realize that what you mean is that _pizza_ is the best. … Yeah, yeah. I know. Now get some rest.”

Sam sighed, putting his cellphone back into his pocket. He took one second to brace himself against the counter, and then put his customer service smile back on and moved to man the register.

Sam rarely did full-day shifts at the coffeeshop because of his uni schedule. However, on top of Clint being on bedrest, one of their other co-workers was out of state visiting family for a few days, and the last barista had a mandatory seminar that afternoon. As the hours passed, Sam became progressively more exhausted. It was the kind of fatigue that was both physical and mental, the kind that made your edges raw and couldn't be cured by coffee.

Natasha wasn't faring much better. She had profusely apologized for the fact that she had a date with Jess planned that evening and couldn't stay to help close shop. He had waved her on with a shrug, because what kind of asshole made people apologize for having a date?

But then, as he was cleaning the last dishes, he bumped into the jug of milk that they kept on the counter, and suddenly there was glass and milk everywhere, and he just knew that the manager would lose his shit at him despite the fact that the jug had clearly come from IKEA.

The quiet of the empty coffeeshop suddenly stopped being comforting, and was instead grating some more on his already frazzled nerves.

It was nothing. Stuff broke all the time. It didn't matter. But Sam was tired and alone and he still had to get Clint the pizzas he'd promised, and for some reason all of that translated into a crushing weight all over his chest.

He cleaned the milk up. Then he wrapped the shards of glass in newspaper before putting them in the bin. He finished putting the dishes away, and made quick work of wiping both the tables and floor. He focused on each of these tasks, one at a time, until he could finally switch off the last light in the coffeeshop, close the door and step outside.

He googled the closest decent pizza place that had takeaway options, and called them to place an order.

And then he sat down to wait.

He could have stayed inside, of course. That would have been the logical thing to do instead of freezing his ass off when the dark sky made 7PM feel like the dead of night. But he hadn't wanted to stay inside of _Ground Zero_ for one minute longer than necessary. Besides, wasn't the cold supposed to clear your mind?

Sam guessed that a machete might be more efficient to get through the particular jungle that was his brain right now.

It was funny, in a way, how knowing that you were overreacting didn't actually help you stop doing it.

Sam sat down on the pavement in front of the coffeeshop, and he waited. He didn't really care what the people walking by would think of him. He had other things on his mind. Mostly a lot of white noise interspersed with bouts of screaming.

“Sam?”

Oh, _shit_.

One thing he hadn't factored into his self-pitying plan was the fact that someone he knew might see him like this. That _Bucky,_ of all people, might see him like this.

But of course, that was on par for the course of his day.

Sam raised his head from where it had been defeatedly hanging between his knees, and mustered a smile that was probably as twisted as Clint's sense of priorities.

“Hey man. How are you doing?”

Bucky was carrying two tote bags full of groceries, and half of his hair was pulled up in a ponytail. It was a cute look.

“Shit, dude. How are _you_ doing? I rarely get to see someone looking more pathetic than I am.”

Sam shrugged dramatically.

Bucky let out a chuckle, although it sounded more indulgent than actually amused. “Come on. Seriously. Are you okay?”

Sam sighed, and pulled himself up. Standing might make him look slightly less miserable than sitting on the ground. Maybe it would help convince Bucky that there was no need to worry about Sam at all.

Because that was the other thing, right?

All of this time Sam had spent trying not to care too much about other people had meant he'd also stopped anyone from caring too much about _him_. He hadn't asked about his friends' problems, because he hadn't wanted anyone to know about his. And he wasn't sure he was ready to change that. It wasn't about _deserving_ care. That was probably what his sister would say if he told her any of his thoughts. She would try to convince him that help was something he _deserved_. But Sam knew that. Rationally, he knew it. Everyone deserved to have people care about them. Even less rationally, he knew that he was a decent person. He tried to be. But if everyone who deserved good things got them, the world would be a very different place. _That_ was how the world _really_ worked.

“I'm fine. Bit of a rough day.”

“Yeah? Are you alone?”

Sam nodded. “Just finished closing. Waiting for my pizza to be ready. Clint's on bedrest with bruised ribs, so I'm bringing him food.”

“Wait, Clint broke his ribs?” Oh. Right. Clint and Bucky were kind of friends too. Maybe they should have said something in the laser tag group chat.

That was a weird thing to think about, suddenly having six more people that cared about their wellbeing.

“They're just bruised. He saved a dog from traffic.”

Bucky frowned. “That is...”

“A surprisingly _Clint_ thing to do?”

His chuckle seemed a little more sincere this time around. Sam was killing it. “Yeah, you could say that. How bad is it?”

Sam shrugged. “Knowing him, he's probably seen worse. He'll be fine if he manages to actually get some rest and not walk around too much. But it's Clint, so there's a chance he'll try to climb a tree to save a kitten tomorrow, and then who knows what will happen.

“Hence you going to his place with pizza?”

“Yeah. Baby-sitting duty, I guess.”

Bucky nodded. Sam checked the time on his phone. He still had 10 minutes to kill before he had any chance of his pizza being ready by the time he got to the restaurant.

“I'll come with you.”

“What?!”

“I'll come with you,” Bucky repeated, this time a little defensively. “I can dump half of this at my flat so I know Steve won't starve, and then we can go to Barton's and I can make chili so that _he_ won't starve.”

“You don't need to,” Sam immediately protested.

“I know. I'm offering. It looks like you've had a shitty day, and Clint is probably not better. I, on the other hand, am having a good one. Might as well share it.” He paused. “Is that not okay?”

From the uncertainty in his voice, Sam could tell it was a genuine question.

“No, it... It would be great, actually. It would be really nice. I'm sure Clint would be happy to see you.”

Bucky lighted up at that. “Great. My flat is like five minutes from here. Do you want to come with me while I drop off the food, or do you need to get the pizza?”

“I've got some time still, so I guess I can come with you?”

“Good. That means you get to help me carry the bags.”

Bucky expectantly extended one of the totes full of groceries, and Sam accepted it with a smile. He hadn't expected his evening to end like this, and felt decidedly off-balance. The effect was redoubled when he almost felt as he adjusted his stance to accommodate the weight of the groceries. “ _Shit_ , are you and Steve having bricks for dinner or what?”

“Oh, don't be dramatic. I thought you were a bigshot athlete and all?”

“Considering you probably heard that from Steve and that he was most definitely making fun of me while telling you, I'm gonna ignore that comment.”

“Fine, if you don't want to show off your sportsmanship, you can see this as doing your civic duty by helping an old person you met on the street.”

“I'm pretty sure I'm older than you, Barnes.”

“Pssh. I'm an old soul.”

“That is _so_ not how it works.”

“Too bad for you, you don't make the rules.”

“You don't make the rules either, you know.”

“That's what _you_ think.”

Sam tried to puzzle that one out for a few seconds, and a comfortable silence settled over them both. It was surprising how much calmer Sam already felt. He hadn't thought he would be in the mood to talk to people, had even dreaded having to keep Clint company. Not that he would have backed out of it. Not feeling great wasn't a good enough excuse to ditch your friends, especially not when they were injured.

But banter with Bucky was easy. Sam couldn't have said why exactly. At some point, he'd stopped seeing Bucky as the weird man who wouldn't say a word. He'd come to quite like the nerdy sarcastic guy that hid underneath. He didn't feel like he needed to walk on eggshells around Bucky anymore. And maybe that was why this was so easy. Because Bucky wasn't acting differently than usual, despite the state he'd found Sam in.

The appartment Bucky led him into was small, but clearly well-loved. As he had expected from Steve, the walls were covered with art. Some of it Sam could recognize as Steve's from having seen the other man sketch in the coffeeshop. But there were also a lot of pieces in different styles, both prints and original artwork.

The door opened directly onto the living-room, where anyone who entered was greeted by a couch that probably came from a dumpster. For some reason, that didn't surprise Sam at all either.

“Just put the bag on the counter,” Bucky said, leading the way to the kitchen. “I'll sort through everything.”

He crouched down in front of the fridge and started sorting through the items he'd bought. Sam watched, and wondered once more what the hell was going on. He didn't feel like he was supposed to be here.

“Okay, we should be good to go. Think the pizza's ready by now?”

Sam shrugged. “Let's find out.”

Bucky asked about Sam's classes while they were on their way to the restaurant, which was nice. It was good, because Sam could focus on something that was going right in his life, something that he was proud of. The dialogue felt like a sorely needed anchor in that moment.

“Uuh, sorry, but I just thought... Maybe you should text Clint to let him know I'm with you? I don't want to... impose, or something. If he doesn't know I'm coming...”

“Oh, yeah. Good idea,” Sam agreed. “That's very considerate, actually.” He pulled out his phone and started typing up a message, careful not to walk into any people or streetlamps while he was at it.

“Well, I get how it could make someone uncomfortable. I know that some days I would lose my shit if someone came to my home unexpectedly. Even a friend.”

The question felt like it would burn the tip of Sam's tongue. _What happened to you?_

“Are you... Shit. This is gonna sound weird. Sorry. Are you... _okay?_ ” Sam cringed even as he spoke.

But Bucky only gave him a knowing smile. “It comes and goes. I'm better than I used to be. A lot better. Some... shit happened, a few months back. I told you I'm in-between things right now? Yeah. It's been... hard. Slow. But I'm getting there.”

That was... Well. Bucky had given more of an answer than Sam really deserved, and it still only left him with more follow-ups. But if Bucky had wanted to share any more details, he would have.

“This the place?” Bucky asked, pointing towards a sign that looked like it was maybe written in Italian.

Sam checked his Google Maps app. “Yeah, I think so.”

The staircase that led to Clint's third floor appartment was very narrow, which meant that Sam could barely see where he was going while holding the pizzas in front of him. His struggles seemed to provide Bucky with endless delight.

Having reached the hallway in front of Clint's door, Sam announced himself. “I hope your door is open and that you're either in your bed or on your couch!” He shouted, only vaguely sparing a thought for the neighbours. They'd probably lived through worse, if they lived in the same building as Clint.

“You're not my mom!” Clint shouted back. At least he was actually sitting on his couch when Sam and Bucky came in. A comforter was draped over his shoulders, and he was wering a threabare t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Is this how you greet someone who brought you pizza?” Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.

Clint pouted. “You can't threaten me with taking the pizza back. I'm hurt. It would be... unethical, or something. Don't you doctors have to swear an oath that you'll take care of people?”

“I'm studying psychology, withholding pizza privileges is entirely unrelated to my career.”

“Okay, but aren't you supposed to be the _nice one_ in this relationship?”

“I'm gonna pretend that I didn't hear the self-critical comment hiding beneath that one so we can move on and enjoy the night.

“Is self-criticism not allowed here?” Bucky asked. “Because I'm gonna get in trouble.”

“Fuck, don't get him started,” Clint said. “Apparently there's this whole branch of therapy based around it. Like, the idea that the negative thoughts you have about yourself are causeing your negative feelings, or whatever.”

Sam shrugged. “It's not that simple, but when has self-criticism helped _anything_ , you know? You might as well avoid it.”

It was hypocritical. It was so _fucking_ hypocritical, and Sam knew it. But his friends didn't need to. They didn't need to hear the things that Sam called himself in his own mind. He could look out for them, even if he was incapable of doing it for himself.

“Do you have a functioning kitchen?” Bucky asked Clint, unaware of Sam's bitter inner monologue. “I thought I would make chili. It was meant for me and Steve, so it's gonna be vegetarian, but... yeah. I thought I could make it now and then you can just reheat some of it whenever you want to.”

Clint stared at him. “Are you for real?” He turned towards Sam. “Is he real? Or am I hallucinating?”

Sam pinched him, eliciting a loud yelp. “Real enough, I guess.”

“I'm gonna take that as a yes for chili,” Bucky said with an indulgent smile.

“No romo Bucky, but I think I love you.”

“No... what?”

“Oh,” Clint started, a blush of embarrassment climbing its way on his cheeks. “No romo. It's like... you know _no homo_ , right?”

“I'm not geriatric, Clint, I know what memes are.”

“Hey,” Sam said, elbowing him in the ribs. “Don't start sassing the invalid, you're the one who said you were an old soul twenty minutes ago.”

Bucky shrugged. “I'm full of contradictions.”

“Anyway!” Clint interrupted. “No romo. It's like no homo, except for all kinds of romance. Like, I love you, but in a platonic way. It's a _thing_ , I guess, in the arospec community.”

“Oh. Cool. Makes sense. So... kitchen?”

“What? Oh. Go ahead.” Clint gestured vaguely in the direction of the kitchenette, which was separated from the living-room by a half wall. “Pots and pans are in the cabinet right above the sink. At least I think they are. I'm pretty sure. Haven't used them in a while.”

“You... haven't used pots or pans.”

“You don't need them for pizza,” Clint pointed out.

Bucky stared. “Is that... all you eat?

“He gets leftover sandwiches from the coffeeshop sometimes,” Sam said, grinning a little at Bucky's horrified expression.

Clint made finger guns at them. “Can't say no to free food!”

“I think I am mildly terrified of you,” Bucky muttered as he moved to the kitchen.

“He has that effect on a lot of people,” Sam said. “Okay, move up Clint, I brought pizza so there's no way I'm sitting on the floor.”

“Wasn't the point of you coming here that I shouldn't be moving?”

“I am asking you to let me sit on your couch, which is meant for three people. It's not really running a marathon.”

“Right.” Clint finally moved to the side, keeping his comforter wrapped around him.

“You know you're just going to get crumbs everywhere if you eat like that, right?”

Clint shrugged. “You can't blame me for not cleaning up if I'm not supposed to move.”

Sam couldn't argue with that logic. Besides, Clint's mess was his own to deal with. He passed him one of the pizza boxes.

“Hey, Bucky, do you need any help?” It seemed polite to ask, even though Sam could admit he only wanted to settle down on the couch and rest a little.

“Nah, I'm fine. I know you were starving, so just enjoy your pizza. Most of it is just chopping veggies anyway.”

“Sure. Let me know if you want us to save you some of it,” Sam replied as he took out a slice of his pizza.

It was easy, not to argue with Bucky. It was easy to finally shut off his own brain and focus on the present moment, on the taste of the pizza, on Clint's little groan of satisfaction as he took his first bite, on the warmth of the comforter when Sam slipped his feet under it.

They kept up the banter with Bucky from across the room. There was a connexion there, between the three of them. It all felt too good to be true. Sam took a breath, and then another. He ate some more pizza. Nothing good ever came from those lines of thought.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Happy #AggressivelyArospecWeek! Today is the first of the consecutive updates in celebration of the event. It's also the chapter I have nicknamed in my head as "Climax Part 1" because shit is getting real.
> 
> That said, some warnings: there's some very emotional talk going on in this chapter, reference to a car accident that caused fatalities, feelings of guilt and reference to past self-harm and past abuse. Nothing is graphic and I did my best to be respectful of all those topics, but it's still pretty heavy.

“Hey. Sorry. This is Bucky. I got your number from Natasha? I'm sorry to call so randomly but I...”

Sam was trying to decypher what was going on through the haziness of his brain. It wasn't going well. He'd been studying for his midterms when Bucky's phone call had interrupted him and he was having trouble shifting from one focus of attention to the other.

“What? Wait. Sorry. Brainfog.” Nice. He was speaking in single-word sentences. The perfect proof that Sam was a rational human being perfectly capable of passing some stupid exams. Obviously. “Rewind a little?”

“Sorry,” Bucky replied. His voice was worried, maybe a little pained. Embarrassed too. It all combined to make Sam's mind clear up quicker than it might otherwise have. “I just... Steve isn't here. He's on a weekend with Peggy and I don't want to call him because he's been dealing with my shit for forever and this weekend is supposed to be about him getting some time off but I just... I'm not having a great day?”

It was more of a question than an admission, but Sam could feel that it had costed a lot for Bucky just to let those words out. Sam was familiar with that sort of feelings. Actually, he was fucking impressed. He didn't have the best track record when it came to asking for help, even when he was well aware that he needed it.

“You want me to come over?”

There was a sigh of relief on the other side of the phone. Sam didn't really need more of an answer than that. He held his phone in place between his ear and his shoulder and started packing his things.

“That would be... It would be nice, yeah. I'm sorry. I know it's weird, I just...”

“Hey, man, don't apologize. It's fine. I'm glad, actually. This is good. I'm happy to help.”

“Yeah, but I don't want to bother you. You don't _have_ to, I just...”

“I said it's fine. You want me to call Clint as well?”

“I don't... is he...?”

“His ribs are all better, if that's what you're wondering. I'm sure he'd be happy to come.”

Bucky sighed. It was the sound of giving in, and Sam felt something twist in his stomach. “Fuck. Yeah. You can call him. Though I have no idea why any of you would be _happy_ to come bear witness to me freaking out.”

“Remember the rule about self-negativity? Besides, you literally picked me up from the pavement one time. And you made Clint chili. You had absolutely no reason to do that, but you did. So let us hang out with you for no reason too.

“It is very annoying to hear you fight my feelings with logic, I want you to know that.”

“Tough luck. That's what I'm studying to do.” Softer, Sam added: “Hang in there. I'm on my way.”

“Guess I have nothing else to do.” He paused for a short time. “Thanks.”

Sam hung up before he could force himself to find something trite and totally unnecessary to say. He finished packing up the work he'd been doing, slipping one of his textbooks inside his backpack. He wasn't sure what Bucky needed from him, whether he was up to talking or doing anything, or if he just wanted a presence in the flat. He might as well come prepared for anything, and pretend that he was still dedicated to productivity at the same time.

He slipped a jacket and shoes on, then was on his way out. He was pretty sure he could find Bucky and Steve's flat again if he went back to Ground Zero and followed the way he had taken with Bucky that one time. Which still meant taking the subway and walking a while.

There was probably nothing urgent to the situation though, Sam tried to tell himself. Bucky had seemed distressed during their call, but not in a way that indicated any specific emergency. Still, Sam didn't really feel like losing time.

He called Clint while he was walking towards the subway entrance. It seemed easier to explain the situation aloud than to send him a text and not be able to repond immediately to any question he might have.

Luckily, and somewhat surprisingly, Clint actually answered his phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It's Sam. This is gonna sound super weird, but Bucky called me. He's alone in his flat and not feeling well, so I thought you might want to come with me and try and mitigate the situation?"

“Shit. Yeah. Of course. I'll get dressed right away. Can you send me the address?”

“I don't have it. Ask him to send it to you, I told him I was gonna call you.”

“Okay. Yeah, sure, that works. Thanks Sam, that was cool of you.”

_It's the least I can do. I don't know if it's gonna be enough. Wouldn't you do the same for me in a heartbeat? Don't you know you're a better person than me?_

The unkind thoughts passed through Sam's mind, but he knew best than to willingly give them any power.

“Of course. Gotta take the subway, so I'll meet you there.

“Sure. See you.”

Clint lived closer to Bucky than Sam did, and he also probably hadn't spent a good five minutes hesitating between two streets because he couldn't remember which of them led to Bucky's place, so it wasn't really a surprise that he was already there when Sam arrived.

Bucky was still the one to open the door, and Sam could immediately tell he wasn't feeling his best. His long hair was down and looked slightly greasy, and maybe like it needed to be brushed, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

“Well, you look like shit,” Sam said, preferring to immediately acknowledge what would surely become the elephant in the room.

Bucky raised one side of his mouth in a sad imitation of a smile. “I mean, I did warn you.”

“Sure, but when you said you weren't feeling well, I hadn't quite figured you meant you looked like a dead raccoon.”

“Sorry. I'll send you a slefie next time so you can judge the damage before coming over.”

 _Why are you already expecting a next time?_ Sam pondered, but didn't ask aloud. Instead, he opened his arms and raised an eyebrow. “You wanna?”

Bucky hesitated, but in the end he nodded, taking a tentative step forward.

Sam didn't let himself think about it and folded him into a hug. After a second, Bucky wrapped his arms around him as well. It took another moment before he finally let himself relax into the embrace, leaning nearly all of his weight against Sam.

The latter focused on taking deep, slow breaths, in and out, projecting as much calm and comfort as he could. It wasn't as difficult as it could have been. The embrace was nice, the weight against him comforting. He was here for a reason, with a purpose. He could do something to help someone. That was enough for him to leave at least part of his self-consciousness aside.

“Hey! Why didn't _I_ get a hug?” Clint pouted from inside the apartment, having come to investigate what was taking them so long.

“Because you didn't ask for it,” Sam growled from where his head was still mashed against Bucky's shoulder.

“Well, can I have one now?”

Sam carefully untangled himself from the embrace. Bucky dropped his arms quickly.

“From me or from Bucky?” Sam asked.

Clint shrugged. “I'm not picky.”

So Sam took him in his arms as well, because he wasn't sure if Bucky would really be up for it. And if he was, he could always take a turn later. Clint didn't seem like he would mind that at all.

Clint was much more confident in his hugging than their other friend had been, and he immediately pressed himself against Sam's chest. As Sam breathed in the familiar smell of coffee that clung to all of Clint's clothes, he was reminded of the kiss Clint had given him during his birthday party. The memory brought with it the words that Natasha had said, her cryptic comment about the fact that Clint meant it. Sam still wasn't sure what she'd been trying to tell him.

He wasn't sure what he wanted her to have said. He wasn't sure what _he_ was trying to say as he let the hug go on for just a _little bit_ longer than was strictly necessary.

Clint was the one who stepped back after a moment, a soft smile on his face. “Thanks. That was nice.”

Sam nodded, not sure he trusted his own voice to work.  
They all moved to the living-room, where a pile of blankets was already gathered near the couch.

“Is there a plan here?” Sam asked Bucky. “Do you wanna talk about what's going on?”

Bucky shrugged. “There's not a lot to talk about. I just... I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't sleep last night, the flat felt so empty and just... yeah. I mean, probably there's _a lot_ I could talk about, but I'm not sure I...”

“Hey, man, don't sweat it. I was just asking. It's fine if you don't. You want to watch a movie or something?” It wasn't the greatest plan in the world, but Sam thought it might at least go part of the way towards lightening the mood.

“I... I guess. Yeah. That'd be nice.

“I brought my textbooks with me, 'cause I have midterms to study for, but you two can just pick something? I can study for a bit in the meantime, I don't mind the background noise.”

“You didn't have to come if you have work to do,” Bucky protested.

“Yeah, but I'm here now. And honestly, it won't kill me if I take a break once in a while. I can be responsible and make my own decisions about my study schedule, don't worry.”

While Bucky was trying to argue with Sam, Clint had already settled sideways on the couch and pulled a blanket over himself.

“I'm not moving,” he announced as the other two brought their attention back to him. “I called dibs and I'm not moving.”

Bucky didn't seem too phased. He pulled Clint's feet up, and settled them on his lap as he sat down.

Sam settled on the floor instead. The carpet was comfortable, and he would have more space to spread his notes around this way.

He wondered if the easy physical contact that Bucky had just exhibited with Clint was something that came naturally to him. It hadn't seemed like it before, but maybe something had changed. Or maybe it was just something that the blond brought out in him somehow.

Then again, it wouldn't be that surprising, considering Clint managed to make even Natasha willingly touch another person. Sam himself tended to be pretty free with his affections around the blond, though he'd never been seriously contact-aversed.

Some people just inspired trust in others. Sam hoped he could be that to others someday.

“Tell me you have Netflix, Bucky. The DVDs are too far away so if you don't we might just all have to die of boredom.”

“If you get yourself into a cemetary, I'm not covering any of your shifts,” Sam said. “Your ghost can deal with The Fury by himself.”

“Aww, come on! I was counting on you! I knew Natasha would sell me out immediately, but I thought I could trust you. My ribs aren't even fully recovered yet!”

“You're lucky I'm too far away to poke you right now. It would have proved they're healed enough for you to come into work.”

“I didn't think you were that kind of person, Sam. Have you really sold your soul to the machine of capitalism?”

“I don't actually care about you doing any work. I just care about not having to wake up at four every morning because you're not there to do the opening shifts.”

“Please don't start a conversation about the evils of capitalism,” Bucky interjected after having opened the Netflix menu on the TV. “I live with Steve, I've already heard the speech enough times.”

“Ah, yes,” Clint nodded. “Art students. Is he a card-carrying communist yet?”

“He considered it. He just thought a party organisation was too hierarchical for his tastes.”

Sam looked up at him. “That is the most _Steve_ thing I have ever heard. I hate him so much.”

“You and me both. He has pamphlets, if you want.”

“Of course he does.”

“I mean,” Clint intervened. “Good for him, you know. If he has enough time to invest in the revolution on top of paying off his student loans, I'll let him start a damn revolution. Just don't ask me to participate before my nap.”

“Preach,” Bucky replied. “So, movie?”

“Mmh-mmh. You can pick. Just not anything in which the dog dies.

“I think I can work with that.”

They spent the afternoon quietly, watching some kind of sci-fi movie before switching to RuPaul's Drag Race. Sam managed to get a little bit of work done, although not any amount that would impress his friends. You couldn't blame him though. The music for the lipsyncs was just too distracting.

When dinnertime came, neither Clint nor Sam brought up the idea of going home.

Instead, Clint suggested ordering pizza, which Sam vetoed because he knew for a fact that he had already had some the day before. Bucky suggested an Indian place, at which point Clint admitted to having the most White Person palate ever. They settled on Chinese instead, since there were more options on that menu that weren't going to make him tear up from the spices.

Sam suggested moving to the kitchen table to eat dinner, but Bucky offered to watch one more episode instead. Put like that, the decision was really quite easy to make.

They were all toying with the last mouthfuls leftover at the bottom of their takeout boxes when Bucky paused the credits.

Sam had been laying his head back on the couch, and Clint had started scratching the back of his neck at some point, so it took Sam a second to figure out that he should maybe focus on what Bucky was going to say.

He wasn't speaking, though.

“What's up?” Sam asked.

“I was in an accident,” Bucky answered.

Sam was pretty sure he was missing some context there. He was also pretty sure it wasn't just his brain being lazy.

Clint's hand stilled against Sam's skin.

“A bad one,” Bucky continued after a pause. “It wasn't... It wasn't really my fault, I guess.”

Sam knew what that sentence meant. Bucky blamed himself, despite everyone around him telling him he shouldn't. Despite rationally knowing that it wasn't his fault. Guilt had this way of messing with your head. Something twisted in Sam's stomach.

“I wasn't drunk or anything. But it wasn't their fault either. It was just... It happened. Someone lost control, and our cars collided.”

Sam had turned to look at him. Bucky's left hand was clenched in the comforter that covered Clint's legs.

“It was a man and his daughter. She was ten years old. They didn't make it.”

Silence hung in the room. What could you say to that? Sam's professors had a lot of ideas about it, but none of them applied in this setting. How did you respond to this kind of tragedy when the one going through it was your friend? How did you acknowledge the weight of what was being said without letting it hang on their shoulders?

“I did. Make it. I got... I wasn't in great shape. My arm was pretty messed up. Went through a lot of re-education, and the scars are still... They're something. But still. I survived, and they didn't. His left hand was still clenching the fabric of the blanket, while his right was resting just above his elbow, like a protective barrier across his chest. “I killed people. That's what it comes down too. And sometimes when the flat is empty, all I can think about is that. All I can think about is that Steve could have died in that accident as well. Or any other accident. And all I can think about it that I survived when a ten year old with all her life in front of her didn't. I don't know how to deal with the ghosts when there's so much silence around.”

Sam was holding his breath. It felt like something in the moment was about to shatter. It felt like _Bucky_ was about to shatter.

“There's nothing you can about a haunting,” Clint said from his blanket nest. “Those memories are always gonna stay with you. You can't miracle away the guilt, whatever psychologists say. No offence, Sam.”

“None taken,” was the only thing he found to say.

“But this is good,” Clint continued. Bucky's expression looked dubitative. “This.” Clint gestured at the three of them. “ _That's_ good. That's you not letting the ghosts control what you do with your life. It's taking power away from them.”

“If you say so.”

“You don't owe these people anything,” Clint continued. His voice was confident, and serious in a way it rarely sounded. He clearly had a point he wanted to drive home and was ready to do whatever he needed to reach that goal. “They're dead. They don't need shit from you. You don't have to mourn them. You don't have to live the best life ever just because they didn't get to experience theirs. You don't need to make amends, or feel guilty, or whatever. They don't give a fuck anymore.”

“But that doesn't change the fact that it happened.”

Clint shrugged. “Sure it doesn't. Nothing can change the past. The only thing you can ever change is your present. There are things you no longer have any control over, and there are things you can actually have an impact on. You gotta put your energy in the right ones.”

“You say that like it's easy,” Bucky said.

Clint laughed. It was a rough sound, even a little jarring. Sam reached out for Clint's hand and squeezed it. He didn't know if he was scared for or of him.

“Oh no. It's anything but _easy_. But if you don't do the work, no one will do it for you. And it doesn't mean you have to forget. It would be much easier for a lot of people if you could forget those kinds of things just by wishing hard enough. You don't have to pretend it didn't happen. You don't even have to pretend that you're the same person as you were before it did. You just have to continue being a _person_. Instead of a haunted house.”

Bucky rubbed at his eyes. Sam was pretty sure he was crying. Not that he was one to judge. He felt like a ping-pong ball had lodged firmly in his throat. He tried to swallow around it.

“I think Clint's right, when he says this is good,” Sam said. “Asking for help is terrifying. I can't imagine what talking about this means to you.”

Bucky nodded around a half-strangled sound.

“I'm glad you told us. I'm glad you asked us to come. I'm glad that this is something you feel you can maybe start opening up about. We're not gonna see you any differently because of this, Bucky.”

“Yeah, you _say_ that-” He started protesting.

“We're not. And it we ever do, if we ever start treating you differently, just call us on our bullshit.”

Clint let out a hum of agreement.

“Accidents happen. From what you said, I think you're aware that you're not actually to blame. And if you say that, I trust you. You didn't _want_ to do this, even if you did. I don't see you as a killer.”

Bucky made some kind of wounded noise again, one that Sam wasn't too sure how to interpret. Still, he kept going.

“And I don't see you as a victim either. It's something that happened, both to you and through you, but it doesn't mean it has to mean everything about you. It changed you, sure. I think something like that would change anyone. But everybody changes, with time and with experience. That doesn't mean that there's something wrong with you.

“But there _is_ something wrong with me,” Bucky said then.

Sam felt Clint's hand twitch from where he was still holding onto it. Apparently they both felt their protective instincts swell at a remark like this one.

“Because you think that the people you've invited into your hom are Mister and Mister Perfect?” Clint asked, voice so dry it was almost cutting. “If so, boy, do I have news for you.”

“Clint-” Sam started, sensing the tension in his friend's body and trying to get him to calm down.

“No, seriously. You say there's something wrong with you. Fine. What does that change for us? Do you think we didn't already know? Do you think we saw you show up at the coffeeshop in a completely non-verbal state and thought _oh, wow, that guy must be a paragon of mental health?_ Like, I know I'm not the smartest cookie in the batch, but give Sam some credit at least.”

Sam pinched Clint just above his wrist.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Self-negativity rule. Bucky gets a pass for now because he's in a distressed state and too far away for me to reach.”

“I knew he was your favorite,” Clint pouted. “Anyway. What I meant to say was that we didn't start to hang out with you because you seemed perfectly well-adjusted. We started hanging out with you because, despite everything, you're actually a pretty cool person. Because it doesn't really matter that much. Because I looked at you and thought, _hey_ , maybe this guy won't mind my rough edges, he seems pretty used to looking at his own.”

“But you don't-”

Clint pushed the blanket away from his legs and stood up. He took off his belt, unfastened his jeans, and pushed them down to his knees.

The action revealed his purple boxers – Sam was pretty sure he had a drawer full of those – as well as the lower part of his thighs. On one leg, there was the hawk tattoo that Clint had proclaimed matched Sam's falcon. On the other was a set of almost parallel scars.

“In case you're wondering, yeah, they're self-harm scars. No, they aren't fresh. But that doesn't mean I don't still get the urge to do it.” He started counting on his fingers. “Add to that a depressive disorder and some very bad self-esteem issues. A history of abuse. And more self-destructive tendencies.” He started pulling up his pants. “I'm pretty fucked up by any kind of standard. Do you think I'm telling you this to try and push you away?”

“I don't...” Bucky looked almost scared, facing the fire in Clint's eyes. He had drawn his kness up, close to his chest.

“Because I'm not. That's what _you_ were doing. Which was incredibly stupid considering we came here because you _asked for our help_. Did you expect us to freak out because you _needed what you asked for?_ That is literally the point of our presence!” Clint looked properly angry, then, which was slightly ridiculous considering his belt was still hanging open.

Sam had never witnessed this part of Clint shining through so brightly. He was always protective of the people he considered _his_ , but it was something he usually held much closer to his chest. Sam guessed part of why his anger was coming out so strongly was that there was no external threat that he could let it out against.

“I think what Clint is trying to say is that we all have our issues here. We all have things that happened to us, and that we're maybe not proud of or not over. And that's... okay. We're all trying to help each other, so pitching ourselves as lost causes is just gonna end up doing more harm than good. Harm both to yourself and to us as your friends.” Sam said all of this from his spot on the floor. He still hadn't moved, because he didn't want his gestures to register as threatening in any kind of way. There was already enough tension in the room, and if Sam could manage to project some façade of calm, it would probably be beneficial for everyone involved. Or at least it wouldn't hurt. “Hence the self-negativity rule, you know?”

Bucky didn't answer, looking at them both from behind his knees. At least Clint took the occasion to finally buckle his belt.

Sam felt relieved by the finality of that gesture. It made him feel slightly safer. The scars weren't his to get self-conscious about, it wasn't really them that made him so uncomfortable. Maybe it was the openness that Clint had shown in laying all of his issues on the table like an uninteresting hand of cards, while Sam still felt the need to clutch all of his to his chest.

“Hey,” Clint started, voice much softer than it had been just a minute ago. He waited for Bucky to look up. “Can I touch you?”

Bucky blinked, confused. Sam understood that reaction, though he felt sad about it. People just weren't used to others _asking_.

“I...”

“How about this,” Clint continued. “Do you want me to hug you?

Bucky seemed even more taken aback by the idea that what _he_ wanted was what mattered here.

“Yeah,” Bucky whispered after a few seconds. Clint smiled at that, slow and easy. He gently pressed his hands against Bucky's knees until he lowered them to the ground, then stepped forward. He folded Bucky against his chest, and held on. Bucky did too, circling Clint's torso with his arms, right above his hips. They stayed like that for a long moment. Bucky started sobbing a little, but Sam could tell it was the kind of sobs that expressed more relief than anything else. The kind that helped you purge your emotions so that you could get back to a clearer mindset. His breathing started settling again after a minute or two. Clint and Bucky didn't break the embrace until the sobs had completely stopped.

Sam thought he should have been uncomfortable, witnessing such an intimiate moment. He didn't feel like he had been relegated to the outside of things though. He still felt connected to what was happening, still felt like he belonged here.

 _Belonging_. What a thrilling, terrifying thought that was.

When Bucky finally pulled away from the hug, his eyes were a little red from his tears. His edges looked soft, like this, Sam thought. He seemed quieter. Not in the way he was when he went non-verbal. More... settled.

Bucky looked towards him.

Sam could have said a lot of things, right then. He could have offered words of comfort, or he could have shared something of himself. Instead, he said:  
“So, is it my turn to be jealous I didn't get a hug?”

It didn't quite shatter the moment, but it turned a page. It marked some kind of moving on.

Clint stepped away from Bucky and stretched his arms over his head. “Nah. You're mean, you don't deserve it.”

“I'm _mean_? What have I done to be called _mean?_ ”

“You pinched me!” Clint pouted.

“You're a freaking five year old.”

“See? You're being mean again.”

“I'm telling the goddamn truth, it what I'm doing.”

Bucky laughed softly at their exchange. The sound sent a thrill down Sam's pine, surprising him with its intensity. He felt his muscles relax, as if by magic.

 _Shit_.

What had Natasha said about crushes that one time? Was it what this was?

Sam finally stood up from his place on the floor. His body felt heavy and unwieldy. Everything suddenly seemed strange. One step removed.

 _God,_ he was being so dramatic. But that was what he got for pretending he could live without any kind of attachment to other people. His punishment for forcing himself to walk through a desert was to jump into the first pool he saw. And to have to deal with the panic of nearly drowning.

Bucky yawned. He looked at his hand in surprise after having done so, apparently confused by his own tiredness. Sam wasn't surprised, though. They had made the guy go through a bunch of heavy emotions, and it wasn't exactly early anymore.

Bucky fiddled with the edge of the blanket Clint had been using earlier.

“Um. Can I ask for one more favour? You don't have to say yes.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I don't see why we wouldn't let you ask, then. Last time I checked, this is supposed to be a free country. Though I'm sure Steve would have opinions about that.”

The quip earned him a small smile, which Sam was loathe to admit he pocketed like treasure.

“This is gonna sound weird, but... um. Do you... wanna spend the night here?”


	7. Chapter 7

“This is gonna sound weird, but... um. Do you... wanna spend the night here?

Bucky was hiding behind his knees once more, not looking either Clint or Sam in the eyes. Obviously, the request was important to him.

Sam thought about it. He was tired too, after the emotional conversation that they'd had. Taking the subway back to his place didn't exactly sound attractive. What did he stand to lose by staying? He could always get some studying done in the morning if he needed to, and didn't have anywhere to be before his afternoon shift at _Ground Zero_.

“I don't mind staying,” Clint said. “But I have to be at the shop at shit-early in the morning. Opening shift. But I can sleep on the couch and sneak away in the morning so you don't have to wake up? This place is closer to the shop anyway, it would be nice.”

“That would... That would be great. Sorry, I know I'm asking a lot.”

Clint shrugged, then ruffled Bucky's hair like he might a dog's. “It's fine. We told you. We're happy to be here. Besides, you made me chili. Sleeping on your couch is a much less labor-intensive favor.”

“I can stay too,” Sam cut in. “Don't have anywhere to go until the afternoon. “Wouldn't mind if you could lend me a t-shirt or something else to sleep in, though. I have to admit that studying for exams sometimes makes me forget that changing clothes is a thing I should be doing.”

“Pff. Fuck social conventions,” Clint responded. “Why wear clothes at all if you're not going anywhere?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Because we're not all trying to patent the phrase _human disaster_ , Clint.”

“I'm just saying, if you don't wear clothes, you have less laundry to do.”

“I have clothes,” Bucky said, interrupting the bickering. “I even have clean ones. Not much else to do except laundry, when you're out of work and you don't study.”

“That was the saddest thing I've ever heard,” Clint stated. “I will give you all of my Dog Cops DVDs. You don't even have to return them. I cannot believe you think that _laundry_ is the way you should be passing time. Jeez. For a while I thought I respected you.”

The thing was, Clint didn't even sound ridiculous. Because, when he said that a guy doing laundry was the saddest thing he'd ever heard on a night where said guy had admitted to _killing people_ , he actually meant it. It wasn't a way of deflecting the heavy stuff. He wasn't like Sam. He genuinely thought that watching Dog Cops could be more important than all the traumatic things they'd talked about.

Sam admired him a lot.

… Oh, _no_. No way. Realizing that he _might_ have a _small_ crush on Bucky was one thing. Admitting that he might _also_ have a crush on Clint Barton was a totally different one. This could not be happening. Why would it be happening? When had Sam gotten so blind to his own emotions that he didn't realise he had a crush, not once but _twice_ and _at the same goddamn time?_

The answer, of course, was that Riley had happened. The answer was that Sam had spent years being in love with his best friend. His _straight_ best friend. And the straight part had been fine, really, because Sam had gotten used to the idea of not ever dating his crush. He'd been happy to just spend time with him, to be trusted by him, loved by him, even if it was all in a platonic way. That part had been more than fine.

But then Riley had _died_ , and after that Sam hadn't remembered how (or why) he was supposed to be a person anymore. He hadn't remembered that letting people in didn't have to hurt. All he had understood for a while was the pain that was radiating from his chest through all of his body, the physical ache that he knew there was no medicine for.

“You coming, Sam?” Bucky asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice. That probably meant that Sam hadn't reacted to something he had done or said. Great. He was doing a magnificent job of hiding his small-scale existential crisis.

“Yeah, sure.” Presumably, they were going on a quest to acquire appropriate sleepwear. Clint clapped him on the shoulder as he passed by to follow Bucky. The casual contact felt like it burned.

That was the other thing. Sam had been busy admiring the way Clint managed to worm his way into everyone's personal space, but he hadn't realized how reliant he had become on his friend's warmth to make it through the day.

And now that he was having these thoughts, the kiss they'd shared at Clint's birthday party was running through his mind again, along with Natash's commentary. _He means it._ What was up with Natasha that she could read him so easily anyway? The woman really was freaky.

But Clint wasn't interested. That was what Sam had to remember. This was just another Riley situation. An impossible crush that wouldn't go anywhere. Realising that he had feelings would just make things more complicated and awkward, up to the moment when Sam would finally manage to let them fade into the background again. He was good at that. He could manage.

Bucky guided Sam to his bedroom, and Sam hovered behind him as he looked for a shirt to lend him. They were about the same height, but Bucky's shoulders were much larger than his. In the end, Bucky handed him what looked like an old t-shirt from a punk band. It was soft with use and a little faded.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Before you ask, no, this isn't from my punk phase.” The edge of his mouth was already pulling up into a smile. “Punk isn't a phase, it's a lifestyle.”

Sam laughed. “I guess I should have expected that one. Sorry, I'm more of a rhythm and blues kind of guy.”

Bucky shrugged. “I guess nobody's perfect.”

“Is that how it is?”

“My house, my rules. My rule is that you don't disrespect punk. Steve would back me up on this one.”

“I don't doubt it.” There was a pause, during which Sam fiddled with the shirt in his hands. “So... Do you want me to sleep here, or should I take Steve's room?”

Sam wasn't sure which answer he dreaded more. On the one hand, sleeping in the same room meant sleeping in the same bed, because Bucky didn't really have the space to add a mattress on the floor, considering most of the superficy of the room was being taken up by his double-bed. And sleeping in the same bed right after Sam had realised he might have a crush on the guy seemed like a very targeted kind of torture.

On the other hand, sleeping in another room felt like a sad way to end this evening. It felt like a contradiction, both to the purpose of him spending the night here and to the emotional intimacy that had developed through the evening.

Also, it meant _not_ having the chance to sleep in the same bed as his crush.

Bucky looked down at his bed and its unmade sheets, worrying his lower lip for just a second. Sam should not have found the gesture as endearing as he did.

“Um. You can sleep here? If you don't mind. It's only the one bed, so I totally get it if you don't wanna but...”

Sam shrugged. “Nah, man, it's fine. Bed's big enough for the both of us, don't stress about it.”

Sam should have gotten an Oscar just for that one line, because _he_ was _most definitely_ stressing about it. What a mess.

Before they had time for any more awkwardness, Clint's face appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Bucky, do you mind if I use your shower? That way I don't have to use it in the morning and risk waking you up.”

“You can just admit that you're usually too lazy to shower in the morning, you know,” Sam responded.

“That too,” Clint said with a nod of acknowledgment, clearly unbothered with the way Sam was poking fun at him.

“Yeah, of course. Wait, I'll get you a clean towel.”

The both of them left the room, which had the inconvenient side-effect of letting Sam stew in his own thoughts. He tried to distract himself by taking stock of his surroundings, but Bucky's room was pretty bare. The walls were a light greyish blue color, without any decoration put up. The only pieces of furniture aside from the bed were the wardrobe and a well-filled set of bookshelves. Sam wasn't surprised, when he approached the latter, to find a substansive collection of Discworld papersbacks and the entire _Harry Potter_ series. He picked up one of the Terry Pratchett books, flipping through a few pages with curiosity.

He put it back on the shelf before he got too engrossed in it. How long had it been since he had read a book for pleasure and not for class?

He started taking off his clothes, figuring he might as well change now and get it over with. It felt weird to be hanging out in his boxers in another person's room, but whether he started feeling queasy about it now or five minutes later didn't change much in the grand scheme of things.

Of course, because he was lucky like that, Bucky came back into the room when he had his shirt off. Which meant he was only wearing boxers and socks, which meant he was practically naked.

Luckily, Bucky didn't comment on his state of undress. “Nice tattoo. Didn't know you had one.”

“What, I don't seem like the type?” Sam asked, turning towards Bucky in what he prayed was a casual way.

“I don't know. I guess. Is there a specific type of people who're supposed to get tattoos?”

“Guys who want to look tough and girls who want to look edgy?”

“Eh. By that account, out of the two of us, I guess _I_ should be the one with tattoos. Goes with the whole punk rock persona and stuff.”

“Because that's supposed to be tough, or because it's edgy?” Sam asked with a smirk. “Out of the three of us though. You saw one of Clint's, on his thigh. He has two more.”

“Oh. Cool. Does yours have a meaning or something?” Bucky winced right after he'd asked. “Sorry. That must be kind of an annoying question. I bet you get it a lot.”

Sam shrugged. “Not really. It's not in a visible place so... But yeah. It does. I picked a falcon 'cause it used to be a kind of nickname, for me and my best friend. I don't remember exactly how it started, I think maybe it was a Star Wars thing at first? Like, the Millenium Falcon? But only the bird part stayed. My best friend, Riley, he...”

Sam paused. He knew what he wanted to say. He knew it would feel good, to share something personal in return for what Clint and Bucky had shared with him tonight. He knew it would feel good to allow himself to trust them. He knew he wanted to.

But that didn't make it any easier.

“He... died. Some kind of rare genetic disease. It was... It came on suddenly, got bad quickly, but then... It took a while. We both... We kind of knew he was gonna go, at some point.” Sam stopped for a moment, gathering his thoughts and his emotions. He suddenly realised that this was the first time he'd talked about Riley's death with someone who wasn't his family. It had been more than a year.

“I wanted him to stay with me... afterwards. I mean, obviously, he would. He was... he was my family, you know? But I wanted him to know, before he died, that I wouldn't forget him. That he would still be there, in a way. _Fuck_ , that sounds really cheesy. But yeah. I got the tattoo for him, kind of. Thought about it for a few weeks, while he was in the hospital. Found an artist I liked, and then I just went for it. Apparently I'm really sensitive to needle pain, because it hurt like a bitch, but well. It was worth it.”

“That's... It's nice. That you did that for your friend. That he got to see it. It's a beautiful tattoo.”

“Thanks.” Sam finally slipped on the shirt that Bucky had lent him. The movement was a barely disguised way of closing down the subject of conversation, but well. Sam had tried. He had shared something really personal. He couldn't blame himself for not being ready for more. “So, you ever thought of actually getting one yourself?”

Bucky smiled, but shook his head. “Nah. I'm kind of like you, not a fan of needles. The idea of being repeatedly stabbed by someone injecting ink under my skin is... not my idea of fun. I can appreciate the art, though.”

“I sure hope so, living with someone like Steve.

Bucky chuckled. “Oh, don't worry. He's got other worries than my appreciation of _tattoos_. He compains all the time that I don't know what impressionism is.”

“And you certainly don't misuse the word on purpose just to annoy him. I'm sure.”

Bucky shrugged. “I invoke my right to remain silent on this one.”

There was a lull in the conversation, but once more they were saved from the awkwardness by Clint knocking on the door. He walked into the room with his wet hair standing in every direction.

“Just wanted to let you guys know that the bathroom's free. In case you want to brush your teeth or something. Also, wanted to say goodnight. I'm gonna go collapse and pretend that tomorrow isn't actually going to happen.”

“Thanks for staying, Clint. It means a lot.”

Clint shrugged. “Your water pressure is way better than mine. If you're not careful I'll be coming back here everyday.”

He left the room after that, and the noise coming through the open doorway suggested that he had thrown himself onto the couch and huddled in a blanket.

“I'll go brush my teeth then,” Bucky started. “Sorry, I don't think we have any spare ones lying around...”

“It's fine. As long as you don't tell my dentist, I think I can survive a night without brushing them.”

“Right. Okay.”

Bucky made a quick escape through the door, leaving Sam alone in the bedroom once more, contemplating just what the hell he was supposed to do. Was it presomptuous to slip into bed already? What if Bucky had a preference as to which side he slept on? Sam could always just move later. Was thinking about this a sign that he was overthinking things _way too much?_

Sam had left his backpack in the living-room, so he couldn't even take out his textbook and pretend to be doing some last-minute cramming.

The practical side of his brain won when it suggested that if he was going to wait, he might as well do it inside the bed, where it was warm. So he slipped under the covers, taking the side furthest away from the door. Once lying down, he figured he might as well close his eyes. That was what you did in a bed, wasn't it?

Well. Among other things.

But Sam wasn't going to let his mind wander there. He was a bit of a mess right now, sure, but surely he had enough will not to fall to _that_ level just yet. Not getting a boner when he was spending the night in his maybe-crush's bed was probably right at the limit of what little self-respect that he possessed.

Bucky stopped in the doorway as he came back into the room.

“I'm not asleep yet,” Sam mumbled. He was surprised to hear that his voice was already low and a bit slurred. He hadn't noticed how much he'd started to relax. Was he that tired? Turned out Bucky's bed was really comfortable. Soft enough, without giving you the impression that you were falling through a marshmallow.

“Sorry. I'll just get changed and...”

“Do what you want, man. This is your room. And your bed. No need to apologize.” Sam waited a beat. “If you reply to this with _sorry_ , I'm gonna get up just to kick your ass.”

Bucky laughed. “Sure. Won't say a word.”

“You just said a bunch.”

Sam closed his eyes again. He heard some rustling noises, which he assumed meant that Bucky was changing into sleepwear. Sam closed his eyes even _harder_. He was _not_ going there.

Then the bed dipped slightly, and Bucky was slipping in beside him, tugging on the comforter a bit to resettle it over both their bodies.

Sam breathed.

In and out.

At some point, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Climax Part 2: The Sleepover Edition
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this little bit of softness with only low amounts of panic! These guys are getting there!
> 
> Don't hesitate to tell me what you think of this story, and I hope you're all doing okay. <3


	8. Chapter 8

Bucky had already left the bed when Sam woke up, feeling slightly disoriented. The fact that he was already awake probably made things less awkward than if Sam had had to wait for him, though.

Sam stood up and stretched. He walked into the living-room.

Bucky was sitting on the couch, attentively reading through the first chapter of Sam's Childhood Development textbook. Sun was pouring in through the windows. It was an impressively clear day considering the season. Rays of light were hitting Bucky's hair, making the long strands shine.

And, yeah, the fact that Sam was noticing that probably meant he did indeed have a little bit of a crush, like he'd finally realised the night before. But it wasn't his fault. Bucky's hair hung over his shoulders in soft waves, still a little mussed up from sleep. How was he supposed to _not_ look at it?

“Hey,” Bucky said, barely looking up from the book in front of him. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah. Really well, actually.” Sam probably shouldn't have said that. If he hadn't, he could have blamed the lack of sleep for what he did next, which was to approach the back of the couch and run a hand through Bucky's hair.

Sam stared at his hand after the fact. He took a step back.

“Sorry. Should have asked. It just looked... soft.”

Bucky, who had also frozen at the touch, now slowly turned towards him. He looked at Sam for a long, quiet moment, as if searching for something. Sam didn't know what it was, but he endured the stare, cringing inwardly.

“It's okay,” Bucky finally said, allowing Sam to breath once more. “It felt nice.”

A new kind of tension settled between them as they looked at one another. There was no one around to diffuse it, only them. Did Sam actually _want_ to diffuse it?

Before he had come to a definitive answer, Bucky turned away. “Sorry.”

Sam made up his mind.

“Don't,” he said, just a little too quickly. At least it caught Bucky's attention, forcing him to focus on Sam once more. “You keep apologizing for stuff that's not your fault. Besides, it makes it sound like this is something I might regret.”

There. That was it. A point of no return had been crossed. The bridge has started collapsing behind him, and it was now officially easier to run forward than back.

“What do you mean?” Bucky asked.

“If I made you uncomfortable, If I'm making you uncomfortable _right now_ , I'll apologize for it. Because it's on me. But if you're _not_ uncomfortable, then... Then I'm not gonna back down.”

Bucky still looked like he had no idea what was going on. Which was fair, because Sam was being far from explicit. He just wasn't sure how to be. Why did it feel so awkward to say such an important thing? He was fairly sure that Bucky wouldn't react in too negative a manner, so that wasn't the issue. But why did all the words he found feel either too childish or too inappropriate?

He stepped towards the couch once more and let his hand over just above Bucky's head.

“Can I?”

It meant a lot that Bucky nodded. That he trusted Sam, despite the extremely vaguely-worded question.

Sam ran a hand through his hair once more. It really was as soft as it looked.

“I think I like you a little. Maybe more than a little. I don't know yet,” Sam said, finally letting it out as clearly as he could.

“I-”

“You don't have to say anything. You don't have to do anything. I guess I just wanted you to know. Like I said, if it makes you uncomfortable, I can apologize, and we'll move on. It's just... you and Clint were being so honest and open, yesterday. And I'm trying to do the same but... It's hard. For me. To do that.”

“You-”

“I just thought it was only fair. To try. To be honest. So there. This is me, trying, I guess. Sorry.”

“Are you done now?”

Sam startled, and actually took a good look at Bucky. He could see the mirth in his eyes.

“... Sure. I guess.”

Bucky shook his head, his amusement gaining ground. “You don't have to apologize. I think I like you a little, too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

That was... not how Sam had expected his morning to go.

He hadn't exactly known _what_ to expect, but still. If he had been asked to imagine something, it probably wouldn't have been this.

The tension was still there, despite their confession. It was perhaps even a little worse now, because they were both very much aware of what was _causing_ that tension. They had given it a name, now they were waiting for the consequences.

“That's...” Sam started, trailing off almost immediately. Was it really too late to claim lack of sleep? Could he blame it on too much sleep instead?

Bucky grimaced. “I don't wanna make it weird. You and Clint are kind of the first friends I make since the accident that weren't forcefully dragged into my life by Steve. And, I mean, I still met you through Steve, but it didn't feel like... There wasn't any pressure to actually like you. I just do.

“It's not weird. I was the one who... _said_ _it_ in the first place. It's fine.” _Wait._ “Wait. Clint.”

Bucky was a friend of Clint's too. That was something that Sam needed to keep in mind as he tried to navigate the mess that were his feelings. Which meant that...

He cringed in advance as he took a deep breath. Still, honesty felt like the way to go if he didn't want this to become a problem later on.

“I kind of like him too.”

Funny how it felt much easier to say the second time. Or mabe it wasn't that. Maybe it was just that Clint wasn't in the room to hear him. Maybe it was that his crush on Clint didn't mean a thing if he only talked about it to _other_ people.

Bucky laughed then. Sam couldn't even get offended, because the laughter was a little nervous. Slightly hysterical, even.

Sam stared at him. “What the fuck?”

“Sorry,” Bucky said, trying to catch his breath. In the meantime, Sam figured that it was past time he actually sat down on the couch. If they were gonna have this conversation, they might as well do it in a position that wouldn't make Sam's legs or Bucky's neck cramp.

“Sorry,” Bucky tried again as his laughter clamed down. “It's just... It's fucking ridiculous, is what it is. I like Clint too. I think. I mean, that's the thing, right? It feels like a crush, but also I haven't known you guys for that long. And you're kind of my first two new friends. So it seems kind of weird and stupid for me to get a crush on both of you at the same time. Or maybe I'm just confusing the feeling with wanting to be your friend. But then there was last night, and you both stayed with me. That was... It was really kind of you. And it felt nice. It felt good or... _right_. I don't know. I didn't... I don't usually know how to ask for help, you know? Not to anyone other than Steve. But I wanted to. With you. And you were there. And now you tell me that... that you like me too. And Clint as well. And it's just... a really fucking weird situation.”

Put like that, Sam could admit it was kind of funny.

“Honestly, this feels like the kind of mess that _Clint_ should get into. We're supposed to be the functional people in this relationship.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Have you looked at me?”

“I have, actually. Repeatedly. And I'd like to do it a lot more often still.”

It was a sappy line, but if made Bucky blush nonetheless. Sam felt delighted.

“Sure. Anything more than looking that you'd like to do?”

The question had been asked in a cavalier sort of way, but Sam could feel a trace of anxiety underneath it. He took his time to formulate an answer.

“I don't know. Depends on what's on the table. It depends on what _you_ want to do. How you want to do it. When. Looking is fine for now. It's fine forever if that's how things work out.” He shrugged. “We can figure out where this is going together.”

“That's... I can't tell if this is the best or worst answer. Because it was really nice and thoughtful, but you haven't actually answered my question. What do _you_ want?”

“Wasn't sure how deep into specifics you wanted me to get. I guess... I guess I'd really like to be your boyfriend, if you want that. Go on a date with you. I wouldn't mind kissing you, either, now or later. And probably have sex, at some point, if that's something you want and we're both in the mood.”

“You're pretty big on the whole consent thing, uh?” Bucky asked.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. It's important. Sorry if it's... I know it makes some people uncomfortable, but it's kind of non-negotiable for me.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, it's... It's nice, actually. It's different. But it's nice.”

“So... I showed you mine,” he said with a wink.

Bucky snorted. “That was real smooth,” he grinned, draping an arm over the back of the sofa in a faux-casual way. “I guess I wouldn't say not to a date, depending on where you're taking me.”

“Who said _I_ was going to take you anywhere, uh?”

“Well, you confessed first. Means you've got to handle the responsabilities that come with it.”

“Responsabilities? Do you have a list worked out or what?”

“Nah, you're a smart guy. You can figure it out yourself.”

Sam didn't respond to that, leaving a space in the conversation for Bucky to fill with whatever made him most comfortable.

“I guess I wouldn't mind kissing you either. I mean, I'd like that. Sex is... sex is more complicated, for me. I don't know if I can say right now exactly what I'll want or not.”

“How is it complicated? Are you ace or something?”

Bucky grimaced. “No. It's not that. At least I don't think so. It's just... I have a lot of scars. From the... accident. I don't... I don't usually let anyone see them. I'm not sure how that would work in a sexual context. What I would or wouldn't be comfortable with. It's... been a while, for me.”

The first thing that Sam's brain latched onto after that confession was that he could wear a blindfold. He carefully held his tongue, not sure if it was appropriate to start the kink conversation before he'd even kissed the guy. Although he was definitely going to bring it up at _some point_.

“That's fine. We'll see how it goes. We can work up to it if we ever want to.”

“Okay.”

There was a pause, during which they both stared at each other. It was funny how easily a confession could change the quality of their gaze. How much more intesely they were staring now that they both knew there were _allowed_ to.

Bucky opened his mouth slightly, drawing Sam's attention to it. He felt a light curl of want settle in his stomach, like a cat curling around itself to take a nap on someone's lap.

“Can I kiss you _now?_ ” he asked, stopping himself from moving closer before he had permission. But Bucky inhaled sharply and nodded before reaching out himself.

And then their lips were touching, softly, timidly.

That was what Sam always preferred in a first kiss. The intimate act of exploring boundaries, the careful touch of discovery that established limits one by one instead of breaking them all.

The first peck was immediately followed by a second one, longer, and then Sam moved so he was in a more comfortable position to tilt his head into the kiss. He shifted, still close-mouthed but applying more pressure against Bucky's lips.

Bucky moved his arm that wasn't draped on the couch to the back of Sam's neck, and Sam let himself be guided impossibly closer by the touch. It was nice. The kiss was intense without being demanding. Bucky's hand was more groundind than authoritative.

They parted, looking at each other. Their breaths were a little short. Sam could feel his lips tingling, a pleasurable sensation that made him want more. He was also keenly aware of a problem, though.

“Sorry to say this, but we kind of both stink of morning breath right now.”

Bucky groaned and buried his face in Sam's shoulder in exasperation. It just made Sam laugh.

“Come on. You know I'm right. It's not as if we're short on time or whatever. Wa can make out after breakfast.”

“I still don't have a spare toothbrush to lend you, so that won't change your breath situation.”

Sam shrugged. “At least the taste of coffee might hide it a little. Besides, it's not like _you_ were complaining.”

“Don't start criticizing my standards, it's always gonna rebound on you.”

“Oh, don't worry, my self-confidence can take it.”

“Good to know.” Bucky leaned in again for a last quick peck. He then stood up and stretched his arms over his head. Sam felt quite at ease with the fact that he was now allowed and possibly encouraged to stare at the stretch of skin on his lower back as his t-shirt rode up. “Come on. I can make some eggs.”

“I don't know how Clint does it,” Bucky said, halfway through his plate of eggs.

“Mmh?” Sam tried to convey an encouragement to continue talking around a mouthful of toast.

“The way he just... showed me his scars. Like it was nothing. I mean, they're... They're even more personal than mine, in a way, and he just... did it.”

Sam swallowed, then took a sip of his coffee as he considered his answer. “I don't think it was that easy. I think it's still something that he struggles with. But his way of dealing with difficult situation has always been to just rip the band-aid off and pretend that it didn't hurt. So I think that's what it was, for him. I think that showing them is something important, but he doesn't want _you_ to know that. But maybe I'm just interpreting or projecting or whatever. I just think he does it because that way he's not letting them have too much power over him.”

“Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

“You know how he has his tattoo on his other thigh?” Bucky nodded. “He could have had a cover-up instead, you know? If he wanted to make it easier. I think he kept them for a reason. I think he _shows_ them for a reason.”

Sam had wondered, that first time Clint had shown him his tattoo, dropping his pants like it was nothing. They had barely known each other at that time, so he couldn't interpret it as a gesture of trust. Maybe it had been a test, in a way. Maybe Clint had wanted to judge Sam's reaction, see whether he was worth letting into his life.

Bucky and him both went back to their breakfast. The subject had made a thought stuck inside of Sam's head, though.

“So... What should we tell Clint?” he asked.

Bucky groaned, running a hand across his face. “Fuck. I don't know. I don't know. I'm not good at dealing with this shit. I only said something to you because _you_ made the first move. What _could_ we tell him? _Hey, good to see you. Me and Sam started daring this morning, but we also both have a crush on you. Do you like us, tick the box yes or no?_ ”

“I mean,” Sam grinned. “That's always an option.” He paused, considering his words carefully. “There's... something else though. And it's not really my place to say this, but it's relevant to the situation so... yeah. Clint might not be interested anyway. And I mean, not in the obvious sense, of course he's not _supposed_ to be interested in either of us. But he might not be interested in the _general_ sense. As in, I think he's on the aromantic spectrum.”

“Like... does not feel romantic attraction. That's what you mean?”

“Yeah. Look, it's kind of stupid, because I don't know for sure. He just... he has this shirt, with the aro flag on it. And it might not mean anything, maybe he got it from someone else, but I just thought it might be relevant.”

“That's... I guess it could make things... easier? In a way? If he doesn't like anyone, we kind of don't have to think about our feelings for him. But if you're not sure... I mean, do you _want_ to tell him? About us dating _and_ about having a crush on him?”

“I think I do? It's weird. I actually...” He paused, playing with his lower lip a little our of self-consciousness. “I actually hadn't realised I had a crush on you both until very recently. Like... last night kind of recently.”

“Seriously?”

Sam felt himself blush slightly, but he nodded. “Yeah. It was kind of sudden. I don't know why.” He paused. “Well. I kind of do. I haven't had the easiest time letting people in, these past few months.”

Bucky seemed genuinely surprised to hear it. “Really?”

Sam huffed out a short, embarrassed laugh. “I've learned to hide it pretty well, I guess. But yeah. After the whole Riley thing... You know, my best friend. Well. I moved here for college. And all the people I met... They kind of didn't seem to matter as much, after a relationship like that. So I just... I didn't let myself care. Didn't give others enough space to care either. After doing that for so long... I think I didn't let myself realize how attached I've become to you and Clint. I think it scared me a little.” Sam drained the last of his coffee, desperately trying to settle himself. “But now... I don't want to hide things anymore. I want to try. It would be so easy to start ignoring everything I feel again... but I don't want to. But that doesn't mean... I don't want to pressure _you_ into doing anything you don't want. It's fine if you don't wanna say anything.”

“I think... I think I kind of like the idea of you two as a package deal,” Bucky replied. Sam barely had time to raise an eyebrow before he went on. “I know that sounds weird. What I mean is... It's like yesterday. I called _you_ , but you immediately suggested to call Clint as well. And he came right away. And, like, I see you seperately at the shop sometimes, but whenever we hang out you're always both there. So... I guess you're kind of connected to each other in my mind? And I like that. It's... It's safe, I think. It feels safer, knowing there are two of you I can count on. And, I mean, it doesn't mean that just having you here isn't enough-”

“But why settle for enough when you could have something better?”

“Yeah. I guess. I'd like to ask. We might as well, even if we're not sure he's interested in either of us. And I don't think... I don't think he's the type to be awkward about it? He wouldn't hold it against us. Even with how weird this situation is.”

“Yeah. It's Clint. He'll probably just make some kind of self-depricating comment and move on.”

Bucky chuckled. “He's a bit of a disaster, isn't he?”

“Yeah. But he has really nice biceps.”


	9. Chapter 9

The plan was to talk to Clint together. But doing that in the middle of a busy coffeeshop was kind of awkward. Especially considering the nature of that particular conversation. The problem was that Clint's workdays didn't usually match up with Sam's, so talking to him at the end of their shift wasn't convenient. Doing it through text just felt... awkard.

So it was agreed that they would try to speak to him Tuesday morning, when Clint and Sam both shared the opening shift. This plan did mean that they would be catching Clint in an under-caffeinated state, which was probably not the nicest thing to do. They hoped he wouldn't hold it against them.

It was a good plan. It was a great plan. Except it involved waiting for two days, and those 48 hours felt like pure agony to Sam. Now that he'd decided he wanted to admit to his crushes, not saying anything felt like hiding a secret. Which was silly, because this was something he totally had the right to hide in the first place, and also something he was _actively preparing to talk about._ That didn't stop it from feeling wrong.

And then there was Bucky. And there was the fact that Sam's brain was convinced that something had to change now that they'd revealed their feelings to each other. He felt like everything was supposed to be different now. Which, once again, was kind of stupid, because he _liked_ the relationship he had with Bucky. That was the whole point. The fact that they had kissed didn't mean that they were now supposed to act totally differently around each other. Friends and boyfriends weren't entirely separate categories.

Except that wasn't was society had taught him, was it? If he were to believe Hallmark movies, dating was supposed to be an entirely different experience to friendship. Finding a datemate was supposed to change the nature of your whole world.

With the exception of additional stress which he hadn't particularly needed, right now, Sam's world was pretty much the same as it had always been.

Despite Sam's doubts, however, Tuesday morning did arrive. Much too early, actually, or so Sam thought as he allowed himself thirty seconds of staring at his ceiling after being rudely awakened by his alarm clock. He counted himself lucky that he was the type of person who could get out of bed right after waking up, because it made the struggle of a 5:30 alarm clock just that tiny bit more bearable. He had breakfast and showered, once more noticing how entirely unaffected his routine was despite the turmoil of his emotions. At this point, Sam couldn't even tell whether he was looking forward to hearing what Clint would say, or if he just wanted this to be _over_.

Of course, it wouldn't really be over. Whatever happened, there would be consequences. Telling Clint about his and Bucky's feelings probably wouldn't change his whole world, but it might add a subtle difference here or there, in what was allowed, in how they treaded around each other.

After the shower came the most gruelling part of Sam's morning routine, which was to take the subway. Another small blessing of waking up so early was that there were few enough people around that he could find a seat and read a little during his commute. Although on that particular morning he had to admit that he wasn't focusing at all on the words in front of him.

Sam and Bucky had agreed that the latter would come by the shop half an hour before opening time. That meant that for thirty minutes after arriving at the shop, Sam was busy cleaning the place, re-stocking, and worrying himself to death. Clint didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, which wasn't surprising considering he usually needed a second coffee before his awareness of the outside world kicked in.

Sam jumped a little when he heard a knock on the door, even if he'd expected it. Clint frowned as he walked over to let Bucky in.

“Hey. What are you doing here this early?”

“Um.” Bucky hovered in the entrance to the shop. “I need to talk to you.”

“Ooo-kay?” Clint looked slightly confused.

“ _We_ need to talk to you,” Sam cut in, which didn't seem to help with the confusion. “This is gonna sound... kind of weird? So maybe let us explain before you say anything.”

“Right... I'm just gonna...” He turned around and started brewing himself an espresso. Sam and Bucky both patiently waited until he took a sip of the burning hot drink. “Okay. Hit me with it.”

“It's not anything _bad,_ ” Sam sighed. “Well. Hopefully not.”

Clint raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Oh yeah. That was a real reassuring statement.”

Sam shook his head. “Come on, give us a chance here.”

“We're dating,” Bucky said, cutting off what had probably been about to devolve into full-on bickering.

“That's... good for you?” Clint frowned. He was clearly trying to figure out what it all had to do with him.

“Thanks.” Bucky took a deep breath, and Sam couldn't help but brace himself for what he knew was coming next. “We were wondering if you would also want to date us.”

Clint's mouth opened. Then it closed again. He furrowed his brow once more, then turned towards Sam with an inquisitive gaze.

“Like I said, we know it's weird. But we realised on Sunday that we both like each other _and_ we both also like _you_. And it's okay if you don't feel the same way, or not towards both of us or... I just mean... It doesn't have to _mean_ anything. We just both wanted to tell you.”

Clint didn't reply immediately, taking another sip of his coffee instead. Bucky and Sam let him. It was only fair to let him try and steady himself in any way he could.

When Clint put his cup down, the sound of it hitting the countertope rang out through the empty shop. It felt a little like someone passing judgment.

Clint took a deep breath. Sam held his. “So, if you thought what you just told me was weird, wait 'til you hear what I am gonna say,” Clint announced with a bitter smirk.

Sam and Bucky exchanged a gaze. They hadn't been turned down right away, which was already a win, but that statement sounded... ominous.

“Because what you just said is like a dream come true to me.”

It was their turn to frown in confusion.

Clint nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Like... Okay. I'm gonna start at the beginning, that should make things a bit easier. So... I'm arospec.”

Oh. So Sam had been right. He felt a little bit less bad about having talked to Bucky about it now that he'd had his suspicion confirmed. He was also a bit disappointed at what this would mean for him though.

“That means I'm on the aromantic spectrum. Which for me means... Well. That's kind of the complicated part, because I _do_ experience romantic attraction, I just don't... I don't do well in relationships. And I don't mean that I'm a bad datemate or whatever, although that's maybe kind of true as well. What I mean is that I don't actually _like_ to be in a relationship. Which sounds really weird considering that I'm attracted to people, I know, but it's just... I don't know. The idea of a long-term romantic relationship terrifies me. It feels so... It's suffocating. But I think most of that is actually just because of the whole set of expetations that surrounds romance, you know? The idea that you have to be _everything_ to someone. It changes the nature of things. And it's _way_ too much responsibility. I think that's what scares me. But I've kind of thought about it, over the years and... I don't know. I always thought it would be nice to be like... an extra partner for people who are already in a relationship. There would be less pressure that way.” Clint scratched the back of his head, looking neither Sam nor Bucky in the eye. “Does that makes any kind of sense? I know it's kind of... unusual.”

“It does make sense, actually,” Sam said. “I think I get what you're trying to say, about the pressure and stuff.”

“But does that mean...” Bucky started. “Do you actually like us too? Do you want to try something?”

Clint shrugged self-consciously. “I... guess? I mean, yes, I do like you guys. A lot. Both of you. And I would love to try something with you. I just... I just don't really know what all my limits are. How to make things work out and not start panicking. It's what happens, usually. What happened, in all the relationships I tried. So I can't... I don't know what I can promise. I don't actually know what I want in the long run.”

“That's fine,” Bucky replied. “We can... We can figure things out as we go. Right?”

Clint smiled. “I guess. If you want to. I mean, you don't... Wow. This feels fucking weird. What a weird fucking world we live in.”

Sam could relate. He laughed. “Yeah. It feels good to have the weirdness work out in our favour for once, though.”

“Fair enough.”

Sam took a gamble. Clint was a physical person through and through, so he figured it would take a lot to make him truly uncomfortable. Sam leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek.

His smile grew wider when he realised Clint had started to blush. It was cute. Sam turned towards Bucky, and noticed he was smiling too.

Clint raised a hand to his cheek, most likely subconsciously, as he turned towards Sam. “Okay. I guess that's a thing now. Sure.” He was babbling. “We should... We should probably keep it PG-13 for now, though. Customers are gonna start coming in and all, I don't want to...”

Sam tried to put as much reassurance as he could into his voice. “It's fine. We'll... We'll talk more about it later.”

“Yeah.”

“You can make me a whilte mocha, if you want to pretend you're busy,” Bucky said with a smirk.

“Sure. One white mocha, coming right up.” Clint still looked pretty dazed, even as he started busying himself with the coffee machine.

Sam and Bucky grinned at each other from opposite sides of the counter. Sam just felt so... _light_. Giddy. _Happy_. When Bucky leaned forward towards him, he didn't even hesitate and kissed him softly. It quickly devolved into more than a peck, though not going as far as to be called filthy.

Behind them, Clint whined.

“Come on guys. That's not fair.”

Sam and Bucky went on a date. They asked Clint if he wanted to come, but he grimaced a little.

“Maybe next time? I think I'd be more comfortable if you two were already kind of established. Sorry.”

And, well, they missed him, a little bit, but it wasn't as though it was a hardship for them to go to the cinema together and then have dinner in a small Italian restaurant that served homemade pasta. They jokingly took a picture with each of them holding one end of a spaghetti in their mouth, and sent it to Clint.

The immediate reply to their text was: _This is cute and all but where are the pictures of the food???_

It made them miss him even more.

They obliged him, of course, and Clint responded to the pictures of their plates with several heart emojis. It was ridiculous, and sweet, and _Clint_.

It wasn't the same as him being there, but it was _good_.

After dinner, they decided to walk back to Bucky's flat instead of taking a bus, both of them wanting to make the evening last just a little bit longer. Then they made out in front of the door like two teenagers, standing just enough in the shadows that people wouldn't tell what they were up to unless they actively tried to look.

They didn't go up to Bucky's place. Steve was there anyway, and while Sam would have enjoyed hanging out with him just fine, it wasn't exactly the kind of atmosphere they were looking for as a conclusion to their date.

It wasn't a problem. They had time anyway. It had been a nice evening. The moment was whole as it was, it didn't need anything more.

Clint joined them on the next date, and insisted they go ice-skating at the small rink that had opened in the city center for the winter holidays. Apparently it was closing soon and Clint didn't want to miss the opportunity. They were the only adults there that weren't accompanying their children, and Bucky kept bumping into the sides of the rink because he'd never skated on ice before. It was fun. They had overpriced hot chocolate with marshmallows after that, then switched to mulled wine as they wandered the stalls of the winter market, failing to stop Clint from trying on every ridiculous hat he could put his hands on.

They told their friends about their relationship, and they were all supportive enough, although a bit confused by their unusual dynamic.

Steve earnestly congratulated them, and Bucky rolled his eyes at the overly sentimental speech he tried to give. It was quite obvious that Steve saw the whole thing as a positive step in Bucky's psychological recovery from the accident. But that was okay. It was his way of caring for his best friend, and Bucky seemed to know that Steve was genuinely happy for them all.

Natasha, on the other hand, was very unimpressed. She glared at Sam. “I told you there were no crushes allowed during work.”

“Yeah, but you were also the one hinting that Clint might have feelings for me.”

“Touché,” Natasha said with a smile. She looked almost... proud? At least Sam knew she wasn't mad at all.

“Why did you do that, by the way? I mean, with him being arospec, wasn't it kind of a risky move?”

“I guess some risks are worth taking,” she cryptically replied. After a few seconds of bearing the brunt of Sam's bewildered expression, she took pity on him. “Clint's had a few bad experiences. Those experiences have made him think that it's better for everyone if he just stays at a distance whenever he gets anything resembling romantic feelings for someone. Despite the fact that he clearly wants more, at least sometimes. And sure, things could have gone badly, but I felt like he had more to gain from trying to figure things out with you than he had from forever forbidding himself to talk about his feelings.” She paused. “It's not that he was miserable or anything. You know him. You know it wasn't like that. The point wasn't to get him to enjoy romance the same way I do. I wasn't trying to _fix_ him.”

Sam would never have thought such a thing about Natasha, and he almost tried to tell her so. She didn't leave him the time though. He figured that she was saying this because _she_ needed to hear, not for his benefit at all.

“I just knew that this was some kind of self-imposed rule he'd made for himself. He wanted to protect others. He was sacrificing his own feelings though.”

“I think you're a pretty great friend to him,” Sam told Natasha.

“Yeah. I am.” Her expression slipped back to a slick kind of sharpness. “So if you fuck things up, don't expect your family to be able to find the remains.”

Sam laughed. He had no doubt that she was serious.

Figuring out what Clint was and wasn't comfortable with was a work in progress. They had a few close calls.

The first time had been the worst, because Clint hadn't wanted to tell them what was bothering him. Having guessed that he wasn't feeling well, Sam and Bucky's first reflex had been to try and spend more time with him. It had seemed like a good idea to distract him from whatever might be going on. They hadn't factored in the fact that spending too much time with them might be just the thing that had Clint so stressed out.

That week ended in a bit of a mess, with Sam and Bucky showing up at Clint's flat with beer and pizza in an attempt to cheer him up, and Clint freezing in the doorway.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked when Clint didn't immediately perk up at the sight of pizza. “What's going on?”

“I can't,” Clint replied, eyes downcast. He was still blocking the entrance to his flat, as if defending his territory. “I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have tried this. I fucked up. I can't do this and I knew it and now you're... I just can't.”

“What is it that you can't do?” Sam asked, keeping his tone soft and even. “Why do you think you've fucked up? You've done nothing wrong.”

Clint chuckled darkly. “Yeah, but that doesn't change the fact that there's something wrong with me.”

Bucky put down the pack of beer he was holding a little too forcefully, making both Sam and Clint flinch at the sound.

When Bucky brought one hand to Clint's chin and forced him to look up, though, it was with incredible gentleness. “Hey. What happened to the self-negativity rule?”

Clint shook out of his grip, but at least he wasn't staring at the ground anymore. “I'm just tired. I'm just so fucking tired. And I'm sick of hurting people.”

Bucky and Sam exchanged a look.

“Why do you think you're hurting us?” Sam asked. He felt awkward, still carrying three bulky boxes full of cooling pizza. But that wasn't the biggest cause of unease. He had known something was wrong. He felt awful for not noticing how important it had been.

Clint looked away again, staring at a wall and worrying his lower lip.

Bucky took a step back, no longer standing within his personal space, and studied him silently. Clint still hadn't moved from the threshold of his flat.

With hindsight, Sam would figure out that that should have been an immediate red flag.

“Do you need us to go?” Bucky asked.

Clint looked down again but didn't reply.

But that was answer enough, wasn't it?

If Sam was honest with himself, it hurt. It hurt like a bitch. Bucky and him had come here to help, had come here because they cared about Clint. Knowing they were unwelcome was like a slap to the face.

At the same time, it also meant that the problem was very easy to fix. And _that_ was their goal. They were here to fix the problem. Not to indulge their own desires. They were here to do what was good for Clint. Even if it meant walking away.

“You should at least keep one of the pizzas,” Sam said, offering up a box. “We won't be able to eat it all anyway. Well. Bucky might, but that's probably a bad thing.”

“Hey,” Bucky protested.

“Anyway, we bought it for you. And you like pizza. It would be sad for it to go to waste.”

“You don't need to-” Clint started.

Sam shook his head. “We don't need to do anything. We want to help. And if us being here isn't helpful, we'll go. But I don't see how pizza could be harmful in any kind of situation.”

“I don't deserve this,” Clint said, voice so low it was barely a whisper.

Bucky's reply, on the other hand, was loud enough that no one could have misunderstood it.

“Fuck you.”

Clint stared for a second, mouth open. “I-”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, anger clearly readable on his face. “Fuck you. You don't get to say what you deserve or don't. You don't get to decide what we want to give or not. We fucking _talked_ about this. If you don't communicate what you need, we have to _guess_. And you don't get to martyr yourself when we guess wrong. You don't get to use us as an excuse to _hurt yourself_.”

There were tears welling up in Clint's eyes. It wasn't really surprising. Sam felt pretty shaken up too. Not only because he could finally make sense of what was going on, could recognize Clint's attempt at protection turned punishment. But also because of the pain behind Bucky's words. Because of how alive the man looked in his anger.

Sam had toyed with the idea for a few weeks now. He was pretty sure he was in love with these two people. Watching one fight for the other was enough to make his insides behave like pretzels.

“Take the damn pizza, Clint,” Sam said, keeping his voice soft. The words were harsh, but mostly they were tired. They were scared and full of all the love he was feeling right then. “Take the damn pizza and get some rest. That's what we want. That's what you deserve. There's no point in having this talk right now while we're all on edge.”

“Okay,” Clint replied demurely, finally accepting the pizza box that Sam had been holding in the air.

“We'll text.” He gestured Bucky towards the stairwell and they left.

Bucky leaned against the wall once they'd reached the front of the building. His body looked like it was about to collapse on itself.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, putting a hand on Bucky's cheek. “Are you okay?”

Bucky nodded, leaning into Sam's touch. “Yeah. I just... I wanted to punch him so bad. And kiss him. And just... _I get it_. I fucking get why he acts like this. Why he didn't tell us anything. And part of it is just that he cares so much about us, more than he does about himself. But I can't... I can't just stand there and let him _ruin it_.”

“We're not,” Sam said, resting his forehead against his boyfriend's. “We won't let him ruin anything. At least not as self-destruction. But he needs his space right now. So we'll give him space. And then we'll talk about it. We'll get through it, Bucky. The three of us.”

“You and your _talking about it_ ,” Bucky replied mockingly.

Sam shrugged. “Eh. It works pretty well most of the time. Sure beats bottling up all your emotions and brooding angstily.”

Bucky punched him in the shoulder for that, although he did it much too lightly to cause any actual pain.

“Don't say that like you're not an expert at it yourself.”

Sam smiled. Because it was true. Because it didn't hurt anymore. Because he was known. Because he was certain that they would all be okay.

He leant forward and kissed Bucky on the lips. It had become such an easy thing to do.

Clint sent them a picture of an empty pizza box before he went to bed that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end <3 Thank you so much for reading, and once again, happy #AggressivelyArospecWeek!
> 
> If you're wondering why the structure in this story (and especially in this last chapter) is so weird, that would be because it was written during NaNoWriMo, without an outline, and then I figured out the chapter breaks only after having the first draft written. *shrug emoji* I hope it didn't bother you too much though!
> 
> Also, Clint's arospecness (akoiromanticism to be more specific) is heavily based on my own feelings. I'm happy to chat about it if you have questions!
> 
> Be kind to yourselves!


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